… is testament to his survival skills.
No, no. He’s not a bad man. In fact, he’s very sweet. Does the dishes. Helps get the kids ready for school.
But unfortunately for Hubs, he is currently residing with a woman who, due to monthly migraines, decided nearly a year ago to switch contraceptives.
Men. Or ye who are faint of heart (or stomach):
This is when you click the little red X in the top left corner. Run. Don’t look back.
Because TMI? Well, I know no boundaries.
It turns out that the generic Seasonique isn’t a good option for me. Yeah, it’s helped make the migraines fewer and farther between.
But apparently, my body thinks it needs to have more than only four periods a year.
So as punishment for my attempts to alter this schedule, my uterus has decided to inflict monthly bleeding episodes that last for 10 days to two weeks.
Hypersensitive dudes? I told you: Go away. You don’t want to hear this.
Anyway, aside from being a little cranky due to the whole, “OMG, do I need to go home and change?” worries, my hormones are utterly out of control.
You know how when you’re being a totally irrational beeyotch — and you realize it — but can’t stop?
Tonight I sent Hubs fleeing. My children are afraid of me.
Hell, I’M afraid of me.
In my defense, however, it’s been a tough week.
Last Thursday, on my way to lunch, I tripped over those stupid uneven bricks in front of the downtown Bank of America building. On my way down, I tried to catch myself on a concrete planter. Unfortunately, I continued to go down even as my arm (and shoulder) went up.
A visit to the doctor next day confirmed my fears. I have a ruptured rotator cuff. Yippee. Tomorrow I go in for an MRI to determine the extent of the damage.
Two days after this unfortunate tumble, I lost my voice. For three horrid days.
Hello, antibiotics. If you’re a woman, you know where this is headed. Ugh. But hey. I can talk again.
And then, of course, on Monday, my uterus decided to take its latest stand against the stupid birth control pills.
I spent 10 minutes today lecturing (OK, yelling) at Hubs for repeatedly texting and otherwise using his smart phone while we were driving to an out-of-town assignment.
Which brings me to this: You people. You smart-phone addicts. You people who can’t bear to not check your phone EVERY FREAKING FIVE MINUTES:
If you want to endanger your life while driving, fine. But if I am in your car, please — respect the fact that I do not wish to die just because you have to text.
Basically, today this translated into: “IF YOU WANT TO KILL YOURSELF BECAUSE YOU HAVE TO TEXT AND PLAY ON YOUR STUPID PHONE EVERY FIVE MINUTES, GREAT!!! BUT YOU ARE NOT GOING TO ORPHAN OUR CHILDREN BY TAKING ME WITH YOU!!”
Honestly? I HATE smart phones.
Because guess what?
It’s rude to text in front of people when you’re eating lunch with them. It’s beyond rude to text when you are driving someone somewhere.
And you people who think you can talk or text while in the grocery store?
OK, it’s probably my uterus talking here but — I AM SICK OF YOU HOLDING UP THE SELF-CHECKOUT LINE BECAUSE YOU ARE TRYING TO TALK OR TEXT WHILE BAGGING YOUR EFFING GROCERIES.
AND I AM SICK OF THOSE OF YOU WHO BLOCK THE AISLE WHILE YOU JABBER OR CHECK YOUR TEXT MESSAGES.
Just so you know, my uterus hates you.
And until it’s off these bloody-awful birth-control pills, it will continue to hate you.
You might want to put down the damn phones.
Or consider taking a survival course from Hubs. Because as I said. He’s still breathing.