Hell Hath No Fury

When I was schooling, we had deportment courses for all the boys and girls. They were suppose to be grooming classes that teaches us how to behave and put our best foot forward in this big, crazy world. Girls were learning how to delicately sip tea without sounding like an industrial vacuum cleaner and boys were trained to use their developing muscles for useful tasks like opening doors and pulling out chairs.

Apparently they forgot to include an important syllabus. One that would have made the big boys wept with eternal gratefulness for not skipping school that day.

“How to deal with PMS”

PMS is scarier than Freddy Krueger. It had been known to turn the most demure Disney princesses into fire-spitting dragons like the ones Harry Potter had to duel with. The minute you pat yourself on the backs for conquering it, it returns with a vengeance, sometimes a more powerful beast than the monster before. In my early 20′s, I’ve heard of ungodly tales about the damages PMS can cause, but because it had not happened to me, I swept it away with my 90′s highlighted bangs as an urban myth.

Then I hit late 20′s, and it hit me like a tsunami. Out of nowhere, without any warning signs, not even a “I’m around the block and dropping by” text message.

Last night I was having a particularly bad bout of it. I dashed (literally) into Marks & Spencer after work and bought myself 4 packs of chocolate fudge pudding, a family bag of chocolate raisins and 2 tubes of chocolate chip cookies (hey it was cheaper to buy 2!). And when I was queuing, because the queue was soooo long and slow (now that I can think rationally there were but 3 other persons in front of me, not 30) I grabbed an extra handful of bubbly chocolate bars on the cashier’s display shelf and threw them into my basket. I mean why not right? Then I ran home in a frenzy to savor my remedy pack and along the way trampled on all the innocent lot who were in my way. Sorry guys but it was a real emergency!

As I stood at my kitchen counter tearing open the fudge pudding with my handbag still slung on the shoulders, the D-man walked in and surveyed the damage. “Did you miss lunch?” he asked in serious doubt. Because he knows that the skies can fall and the sun can disappear but I would still have had lunched for 2. I gave him a don’t-you-dare-come-between-me-and-my pudding glare, and being well-trained for crisis situations as such, he retreated. Fortunately for him (and our marriage), I was back to a more reasonable self after the M&S orgy.

By the way, did I mention PMS can sometimes cost a significant dent in your bank account? I’ve bought a lorryful of things I don’t need and will never use before. Knickers in Wonder Woman print, eyeshadows in shades even Cyndi Lauper won’t wear, fishnet stockings *cringe* and …ok you get the point. And don’t even get me started on how PMS can turn an otherwise slender swan to a bloated hippo. True story.

The world’s unfair and ugly. But we always have guardian angels to see us through.

For me, it was the dude who invented chocolate fudge. And you’ll welcome to share him.

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