Every woman PMSes differently. Over the past several years, I get these intense moody and depressed mood swings. They’re uncontrollable, unstoppable and horribly ugly. No amount of Prozac or alcohol can counteract them. Neither can being rational. Being rational has nothing to do with my PMS moments and it does nothing to make those moods go away. Parrot’s a very rational person. He’s tried that approach. It just doesn’t work.
As much as I can try to describe to Parrot how horribly and uncontrollably depressed I can feel, I don’t think he can actually relate to what this is like. He just knows that whatever demon that possesses my mind will pick up and leave by the next day. I don’t blame him for those times when he wants to crawl into his proverbial man cave, soundproof the walls, and barricade the doors until my mood and attitude improves. Even though I totally think that’s a great coping mechanism for him during the other 27 days of my cycle, it pisses me off when he does that when I’m being a persistently needy and cloying hot mess. What I’ve always thought that I needed is to be spoiled and pampered.
We had a wildly fun and awesome afternoon of wine tasting, a sinfully indulgent wine and picnic lunch, and more wine and cigars on some beautiful picnic grounds. It was one of those gorgeous sunny days that can only happen in Northern California, but a little too cool and public to make wild naked sex romp out of the afternoon. At least we had a gloriously ornate room at the B&B where we spent the weekend. We’re talking about pound our way into oblivion orgasmic kind of sex. Instead of rolling over and falling asleep, he took out his camera and started taking pictures of me. What could be more perfect than that?
Normally, I would revel in a moment like that. I didn’t stop to think why I’d tarnish an afternoon of romantic and sexual perfection with inhibition and self-consciousness, but I was adamant that I wanted nothing to do with taking advantage of the perfect setting and mood (up until that time) to take some naughty boudoir pictures.
Parrot was a sport about backing off with his camera. We decided to go out for dinner. This just wasn’t just any dinner but one of those chi-chi California cuisine of the moment kind of places because, “You deserve a nice night out.”
What he said I deserved and how my uninvited dinner companion crashed and monopolized my mind was a recipe for disaster. This time, I had this nagging doubt that the book I’ve been working on about adult sex education was going to be an absolute flop.
“What if nobody cares about it? What if nobody buys it?”
This just wasn’t one of those times or places to have that conversation. It started over cocktails at the bar and went on through dinner. No matter what he said, I didn’t and couldn’t let it go. I had no inner censor that would have normally told me to shut the fuck up.
“I know; I heard you,” I said. “You told to me to finish the fucking book and get my publicity plan in place 20 fucking times already. But what if people think my book is shit and no one wants to write about it?”
“You do this (publicity) for a living; you have a popular sex blog that people read and like,” he said. “Just finish the fucking book and get your publicity plan in place.”
“But I don’t take on clients that have shitty products,” I said. “What if my book is shit?”
Poor guy. He just couldn’t get a break no matter how he tried to make things right – and that evening was and should have been beyond right if it weren’t for the PMS bitch making an unwelcome appearance. If my book was shit, even if a paragraph or two were the equivalent of a dainty fart, that evening was not the time to tell me if he wanted to walk out of the restaurant with his gastrointestinal system intact. If I were Parrot, I would have strangled me and left me in the parking garage.
Two days later, I’m really hating myself for putting him through that and ruining what should have been an evening we would have been reminiscing about for years. I don’t even know how to make amends for this. I can apologize and tell him that he’s the last person on earth who deserves this. He accepts my apologies, but if this is getting really old for me, what does he really think? I have no clue of what I can do to prevent this kind of bullshit from ever happening again. This kind of behavior, even if it’s one or two days a month, is way too excessive.
“Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself,” a girlfriend of mine said. “Once you go through menopause, you’ll never have a day like that again.”
But what if I’m like my mother who didn’t go through her change of life until she was 58? I could get through this for another eight years, but I can’t put Parrot through this for that long.
This time, unlike most others, I don’t have the answers to this relationship glitch. How do I take this PMS bitch, slam it to the curb, and make it my bitch?