Thursday, January 12, 2012


The other day my husband walked into the room where I was furiously shoving his neatly folded laundry into his over stuffed dresser drawer and said, "It will be two days...three days, tops."

"What are you talking about?"  I annoyingly responded to his obtuse statement.

"You period.  You are going to start in two days,"  he confidently declared.

I immediately felt the tension throughout my entire body begin to relax as I tried to take deep breaths while letting his arrogant, yet very attuned and wise accusation sink in.  Although admitting it is tough, he is right.  I don't even need to check my calender to affirm that I have a perfectly physiological reason for acting like an overly-sensitive, angry, irritable, whiny, weepy, psychotic, paranoid, obsessive-compulsive, BITCH for the past 24 hours:  PRE-MENSTRAL SYNDROME.

I have THE WORST PMS in the history of the uterus and the worst thing is, that despite its clockwork occurrence,  I never seem to realize why I am going crazy until someone else points it out to me.  Along with cripling cramps, bronco busting back aches, and merciless migraines, my pre-mentstral syndrome obeys no boundaries and creeps into the very center of my central nervous system hijacking my brain for a good 48 hours.

At its worst, I have found myself scouring my husband's cell phone statement convinced he is having an affair in spite of the fact he has never behaved in any way suggesting even the possibility of there being someone else.  It is quite typical for me to respond to my husband's mere suggestion that perhaps if I put the extra salted pretzels into a bowl instead of eating them out of the bag, that I may not eat as much with the fury Medea followed by severe break down sobbing like a scene out of the 1979 movie, "The Champ."  No matter what my husband says to me during my PMS peak, even if it is something as simple as, "What are we having for dinner?"  my brain always interprets it as, "HE THINKS I'M FAT!"

Luckily my husband, Ken, is the most mellow, balanced, and all around nice guy on the planet, so it doesn't take long for him to draw me a bath, pour a glass of wine, pat me on the head, and tell me he is taking the kids to the park so I can have some time myself.  All is well with the world by morning.

So to remedy my horrible mood swings, piercing voice inflections, and mild rage over the smallest of transgressions, I have made friends with over the counter progesterone cream.  My gynecologist advised me to use this two years ago when I thought the only answer to my monthly metamorphosis was a hysterectomy and a exorcism. I simply rub a dime sized dot anywhere on my body where fat cells are present (which on me means anywhere other than my teeth) - my gyno referred to it quite kindly as, "where your skin is at it's softest."

My progesterone pal has done wonders for all the symptoms of my epic PMS and makes being a woman, once again, a wonderful thing.  Yes, it does say in the fine print that this cream has been shown to cause certain cancers after extensive testing done in California, but I figure as long as I don't use it while I am IN California I am clear of any carcinoma catastrophe.

It may not seem fair that Ken has to suffer my PMS, until it is understood that I also suffer his "FBS" - Full Ball Syndrome.  My friend Eartha coined the acronym, FBS, during her first year of marriage when she noticed how her husband's entire world, (including body language, sentence structure, word choice, use of eye-contact, and  all around demeanor) becomes more and more sexually focused the longer he goes without a "release."   

Full Ball Syndrome (FBS) is what happens to all testosterone charged men when they go a certain amount of time without having sex and ejaculating.  The amount of time varies from man to man, but in my household if we go more than three days without sexual contact, my husband is a walking, talking, fourteen year old boy who will find sexual inuendo in EVERYTHING I may say or do.  For example:

Me:  "Honey, when you get the lawn mowed and the trimming done could you please move these boxes upstairs for me?"
Ken"  "When I am done in the yard, I am coming IN for some TRIM and I will take care of YOUR BOX while thoroughly inspecting  YOUR UPSTAIRS!"

Me:  "The news said the mountain should get five to ten inches this weekend, so maybe we should postpone our golf plans and go skiing."
Ken:  "Why don't I just give you five to ten inches right now and we can still go for eighteen more holes this weekend!"
Even when it doesn't make the least bit sense.....
Me:  "We should check out this spot next time we are in the area and come for dinner." (Referring to a restaurant near his family's vacation home.)

Ken:  "I typically like to check out ALL the spots in the area before I GO IN...sometimes I even like to park around back!  Ya see Honey, my style is to consider all of my options and then hone in on the area that feels the best!"
Me:  "Huh...?"

There are some days I can't even have a serious conversation with the man because even if I am talking about third world poverty he remembers how exciting it was to see boobs for the first time in his childhood National Geographic magazines when photojournalists spent a lot of time with tribal peoples near the equator.  Then the entire day is then filled with boob jokes and annoying fondling. 

The only cure for FBS is sex, as they don't make a cream for it yet.  Although one could argue that if a man uses enough lotion to work out his FBS on his own, it might help to curb symptoms.  Nevertheless if you live with a man and he suffers from this syndrome regularly - the sooner you give it up, the easier he is to live with.