TMI

I've been writing in my head again all morning, thinking of all sorts of things to share but they all involve too much information. I've decided, "What the hell? I need to write, to share, to sound my barbaric yawp! To scream and yell at the curse of Eve!"

I have my period today. Had it yesterday too. Even on Saturday when I was painting my house. To complicate matters, I have a yeast infection as well. Happy, happy, joy, joy! So I bought one of those "one day ovules" on Saturday morning (love those things by the way, cannot sing its praises enough!) only to realize later in the day that Aunt Flo had come to visit. Most of the yeast treatment "washed" out. I really dislike goo and being messy. My SIL Mia assures me that Aunt Flo will do some housekeeping of her own and that the infection should be gone when she leaves. All I know is that I'm miserable with pads.

"O tampons, how I love thee!" I could write a sonnet. I miss them. I've been gazing longingly at my package of tampons sitting on the shelf. I hate pads. I hate the feeling of oozing. I hate having to wear like 20 of them at once to make sure that every time I sit, stand or turn, I will be covered. I hate waking up at 5:30am feeling like I'm wearing a loaded diaper. I hate having blood all over everything.

AARRRGGGHHH!! I hate periods.

I know, you'd think after 200 of them I'd have adjusted. Apparently I am insane and I think that if I yell that them enough, they'll just stop. You have no idea how many times I have wanted to ask my OB, "So, I know that surgery is generally avoided for frivalous purposes, but I'm done havinig kids and, well, you could leave my ovaries in, so could we just yank out that uterus? I mean, it really doesn't serve any other purpose than having babies and I'm good with saying good-bye." I'm sure he'd just roll his eyes at my melodramatics and explain to why I need to keep my baby muscle despite it's lack of use and why periods are a good thing.

Bah! Lies, I tell you, all lies!

And I'm cranky. Can you tell?

I get hot and then freezing cold.

My children saying, "Mom!" is like nails on a chalkboard.

"MOooom! What's for lunch?"

Thinking to myself, "You want lunch? I'll tell you what's for lunch. You can just...."

But then Glenda the Good Witch sits on my shoulder, reminds me I am their mother and I am responsible for their continued health and well-being and I acutally say, "Hey Quinn, how bought you make PBJs for everyone?"

Ooh, excitement! Problem solved and I go back to bed, throw the covers over my head and pretend my existence has been blotted out.

There's not enough chocolate in the world to cure this.

And my house is yellow? Did I mention that?

Grrrrr! Okay, this is just getting less and less constructive. I'm going back to blotting out my existence. I'll take 4 ibruprofen and call y'all in the morning.