My uterus would like to announce to the world that it is angry and not going to take this anymore.
I just watched the Bridget Jones sequel tonight. I thought it was pretty good. Even the part in the Thai prison with the Madonna songs. This should give you some understanding as to just how far things have progressed.
Also, note to Colin Firth: Call me.
The Advil? The Advil doesn’t work. I think it’s just colored sugar tablets. I’m made an actual dent in my stockpile of Liqui-gels and I still cower in the corner of my chaise, loathe to bend at the waist. You know what works great? Codeine. The codeine is wonderful. I’m so fucking moving to Canada. However, the codeine makes me sleepy. Sweepy. So sweepy. And during sweepy time, we are completely horizontal, and that is when the evil uterus plots the destruction of my 500 thread count white sheets. Why white? Why must I insist upon buying white sheets, despite sleeping with a man who exudes some kind of yellow effluvium from every pore (aka Man Grease) and also have my own self-destruction of said pristine yardage every four fucking weeks? Because I am stupid, that is why. I am stupid and also I shouldn’t have bought Double Stuff Oreos. Yes, I know that they look good, but the Lard to Cookie ratio is just too high. Too high! They perform very poorly in the bingeing arena for this reason. Strangely a good choice? Lemon-filled Sandies. Light, springy, just enough tartness and you can almost pretend that they aren’t padding your ass with the dreaded cellulite. Of course, you could always stick with tradition and go with the pretzels dipped in canned frosting, but there’s just no fooling yourself with that particular choice.
You should see my face. We’re talking levels of pallor that would make the members of The Cure jealous. I never thought it was possible for a fat girl to look peaked, but apparently it is. My stomach, however, is tied into knots, so there is just no fun in this. I made it out to the good non-squicky butcher today and didn’t, you know, kill anyone when it was ridiculously crowded and they made me wait while they did whatever it is that they have to do to produce ground round (No, do not tell me, I totally don’t want to know) so that I could make chili in my new Le Creuset pot. Oh the smugness. Even with the insane cramping, I still had an unhealthy dose of smug. It tasted really good but I could only eat half a bowl, as the uterus will not stand for any bloating that it itself did not initiate. There is a coup in my midsection and I should be cutting my paintings out of their frames and running for the hills, chased by two angry ovaries shouting ‘Viva La Resistance!’
I blew up at Esteban for telling me to take it easy because it was ‘zombie Jesus day’. Even as an agnostic with a wry sense of humor, sometimes it’s really hard to live with an atheist, even a snarky one. He made up for it by giving me a Hello Kitty Easter basket, filled with chocolate and a bunch of new CDs. Look at me, all legit and stuff.
Why? Why does it torture me so? Why? Because I am over this magic of womanhood thing. I am thirty-something years old. I shouldn’t be still whining about cramps. That’s for thirteen-year-olds who want to skip their tennis lesson. Maybe I need to rewatch the filmstrip about the flower and how to fasten a Kotex into one of those belt things that no one has used since the sixties.
Sigh.
Ok, I’ll shut up now and eat the bunny ears off my chocolate rabbit. Dipped in margarita salt.
PS. Seriously, Colin’call me.
