Sunday, 12 May 2013

The rage

I remember, years ago, before even my first ectopic, my sister told me about her boss' PMT. Apparently it was really, really bad, and everyone else in the office had to tiptoe round her. They knew it was PMT not just because of the mood, but because her boss would put a bag full of sanitary towels and so on in one of the cubicles at work, and my sister was glowered at when she came out of the cubicle and found her boss waiting.

My sister's theory was that her boss had particularly bad PMT because she'd never had kids. At the time, in my late teens, I thought of the horror of being a childless woman with bad PMT, devoting her life to her career but ending up with underlings resenting her for it.

Utter pish. I can confidently report that my PMT is fucking awful, awful, at the moment. Apart from being bad tempered, really bad tempered towards my husband and all work projects ever, I've felt irrational stabs of rage at the following:

  • There's a bit of plaster on the windowsill of the shared staircase in our block. It looks like a cast of a turd. Why is it there? I was fighting the urge to hurl it out the window.
  • Whoever decided that delicate, white, lacey cardigans were in this season. It's not that I don't like them, it's that I'm angry that if I get one, I know it will end up being covered with banana, Ella's Kitchen, general black dirt, or similar. Why is fashion so stupid?
  • The fucking self service tills at Tesco. I actually swore out loud at one today, when it came out with its "unexpected item in bagging area" line. The shop assistant was standing right behind me and I felt a bit embarrassed. But mainly angry.
  • Baby boomers. They're an irritating generation. Madly entitled, spending everywhere and reaping the benefits of... well, a generous benefit system. Fucking up the economy. Not passing anything they had on. But being all surprised at people my age not having a better standard of living.
  • My parents' incredibly annoying habit of turning up really, really early to things. The last example was when they were having a city break close to us, and parked their car at our house - they insisted this required us to have the keys for their car, which neither of us is insured to drive. They said they'd be back to pick it up at 10am on the Sunday. Instead, they turned up at 9am, when I was in the shower, my husband was changing the Boy, and, because neither of us could let them in, they let themselves in, got the keys, then made a big show of waving at us from the pavement (Who turns up that early on a Sunday? Really?). They're coming over soon for lunch, and I think I might actually implode with rage if they pull this stunt again. To be fair, they also leave ludicrously early too; they particularly seem to revel in spending the maximum time they can waiting for public transport.
And breathe.

I know I will feel better soon. I will feel weepy and upset, then tired when my period starts, then normal.

I seem to vaguely remember, during IVF, reading that sticking parsley up your fanjo encourages menstruation. And I would, only I would get angry at the parsley, too.


  1. Two things.

    I once stood at the bottom of the stairs as my in-laws walked in about 45 minutes early on Christmas Day and said (very annoyed) "don't you people own watches?"

    A study came out this week that said PMS/PMT doesn't really exist. Hmmmmm. Was the subject of debate with my husband. I'm planning on writing about it.

    1. I'm glad to know that I'm not the only one plagued by mega-early parentals.

      HOW CAN PMT NOT EXIST? How? I don't think I've spent the past week screaming at my husband for breathing because, well, he's breathing, or that I coincidentally morph into a banshee the week before my period is due.

  2. Why am I unable to find a follow button on your blog page? I've been wanting to follow you for ages.

  3. My blog admin is pish! I will, at some point, sort it out. I promise!