To anyone who has come face to face with the pre-menstrual monster that I turn in to around the 20th of every month: I am sorry. I could make a list of people included in this list, but if you have ended a conversation with me lately that left you thinking, "Who the hell was that?" then you know you are owed an apology.
I'll start with my husband. My poor, poor husband.
It has been so cold the last few days. I was sick on Monday. Sick enough to take the day off. That never happens. Mom took Julie and Daniel so I could rest, and I laid in bed pretty much all day long watching reruns on Hulu of The Surreal Life and then I had to watch every episode of Strange Love. Flavor Flav is not the kind of man I would normally raise an eyebrow of interest at, but there's something endearing about him. I can't put my finger on it...though maybe it's the clock. Anyways, the first problem we encountered was on Monday evening. I wanted to make myself a grill like Flavor Flav's, and we did not have tinfoil. DH would not go to the store to purchase tinfoil for my little arts and crafts project, so that was hissy fit number one. This refusal to go out into the subzero temperatures so his wife could make a goofy grill out of tinfoil translated into him not loving me or caring about my happiness and entertainment.
Then last night, we took a family trip to the library. As usual, I wandered right over to the section with the knitting books, and was happy to find the book that the guild donated to the library on the shelf. I decided to check it out and on the way home, I noticed that without being told what it was, I knew the brand and colorway of the yarn on the cover. I excitedly told my DH this news and he looked at me as if to say, "Yeah. And?" Then I asked if he wanted me to tell him. He said no. Then he even said he didn't really care.
Back the SUV up. Doesn't care? Really. Were those the necessarry words to use? Why not just save himself the inevitable argument and say, "Sure, honey. What kind of yarn is that?" No. He said he didn't care. THEN he compared knitting, something I am extremely passionate about, to his job with broom handles. Knitting. My happy place. My passion. And drilling broom handles. Something he complains about and finds quite boring. How do the two compare? I crossed my arms and slumped down in my seat and became set on not speaking to him for the rest of the ride home. I looked out the window and sighed loudly a few times just to make sure that he knew I was not feeling his remark in a good place. It kind of made my inner evil stir a little bit. I took the gloves off and unleashed some hurtful words of my own. I told him that his soul is full of ice and his heart is black. I told him that it is hurtful that he has no interest in something that makes me so happy. And that he would compare it to something that he pretty much hates was like a double punch to the face. I've been hurt in the past. So he won't look at the crap I pull out of my pores with my Biore strip...I can sort of understand that. He won't smell my armpits to help me determine if I smell. I can even get that a little bit. But to call my passion uninteresting to him? That is just crossing so many lines.
But by the end of this week my hormones will have stabalized and I probably won't care.