Pre-Electoral Tension Syndrome

My period-tracking app tells me that Aunt Flo is coming in two days, and that I might be experiencing PMS.

If I’m feeling anxious or tense, it says, I should try boosting my mood with “exercise, my favorite foods, or shopping!”

So, obviously, I threw it into the ocean and am now sitting here grimly sharpening my knives.

I don’t really want to talk about 2016, because I’ve been thinking about it for two years, but here on the morning of the midterm election, I am plenty anxious and tense. There is no champagne waiting in the fridge, no matter what happens. There will be no watch parties, just in case.

Instead, I sit here with my snoozing babe in my arms, teeth clenched as I watch the sun come up through the front windows. Think of a slightly plumper Furiosa, and you’ll have the right idea.

I cannot wait to go vote. I did everything in my power to help save this godforsaken country, some 40 percent of which is okay with a white supremacist misogynist tearing babies from their mothers’ arms. I hope we’ll save ourselves despite them.

But no matter what, I won’t rest. I used to be someone who didn’t really care that much about politics. I voted in most elections, the same way I recycled — because it’s the right thing to do. But I didn’t pay much attention beyond that.

These past two years, I’ve paid attention. I’ve read the papers and watched the news and called my reps and marched and donated and sent postcards to get out the vote. And I’m not going to stop, even if we win it all. I’m not going to stop if we lose.

I’m awake now, motherfucker. I’m awake and I cannot wait to go vote.

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Scene from a Marriage

Adam and I will be married a year next Sunday, which means that I will now subject you all to yet another post explaining how lucky I am to be married to him. (This is appropriate, since, having taken his last name, I am now officially Lucky myself.)

Last night I was sad. I had the PMS, I was feeling blue about some friends who are having woes of their own, and I was reading A Moveable Feast, which, while a great book, is tough to take.

“It’s just that Hemingway had all this love,” I explained to Adam. “And he wasted all of it.”

He’d asked why I was sniffling. We were in bed, about to go to sleep. “So what?” he asked. “Stupid of him.”

“Or maybe just careless,” I said. “Everyone is careless. It is stupid. But it’s also terrifying.”

“Not us,” he said, into my shoulder. He raised his chin and looked me in the eyes. Of his many beautiful features, his eyes might be the winner. They’re big and brown and always a little sad, even when he’s joking around. Which he wasn’t. I thought.

“No,” I said. “Not us.”

He stroked my hair. “There’s only one thing to do.”

“?”

“We must find the anteater.”

I covered my nose instinctively. “Oh no. Oh no, surely not.”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.” He leaned in toward my nose and stuck out his tongue. “We must find the anteater and utilize his skills at rootling out problems.”

“NO! NO ANTEATERS IN MY NOSE!”

“No? Well, that’s a shame. It’s the quickest way in. But I guess he can just go in through this ear…”

It’s very difficult to be gloomy when someone claiming to be an anteater is trying to stick his tongue in your nose and ears.

Image: Artisticdoom.com

For Some Reason, My Period Is Always a Surprise

So, I thought I was going to have to go back on antidepressants, but then it turned out I was just getting my period.

This happens to me every month, because despite having had my period for 25 years, it always comes as a shock to me. I think this must be related to that mechanism that makes ladies forget about the pain of childbirth right after they have the baby. Because if I remembered how bananas I get every month when it wasn’t my extra-special lady time, I’d lock myself in the barn ahead of the game, and wait out the changes with the werewolves.

Adam does not forget that I’m about to get my period, because he was in the gifted and talented program as a child, and learned to dodge bullets in the Marine Corps. So the way I tell I’m about to get my period now is, I wait until Adam starts being really, really nice to me. And then I check the calendar. It never ever fails.

Image: Cheezburger

More Info Than You Requested

I’m too lazy to find it, but a couple months back, a commenter mentioned that I’ll probably freak out when I reach menopause, because I love talking about my period so much. I’m hoping this isn’t true. My Mom seems to have enjoyed being free of her lady time. She celebrated with buying all new underpants and going on a diet and appears to be happier and healthier than ever. However, I’m not sure she felt the same way about the whole menstruation business as I do.

I love my period. I love the excuse for being lazy and taking naps and eating large chunks of bloody cow. I love having a reason for being bitchy and paranoid and I love losing five pounds in the course of a day without doing a single sit-up or running a single solitary mile on the treadmill.

But most of all, I love embarrassing the hell out of people.

Someday, scientists will discover that embarrassment is genetic and I will get the embarrassment titer only to discover that I am missing that gene entirely. I think it’s funny when people are squeamish about bodily functions and the language that describes them and God help you if I ever meet you in real life, dear reader, and I perceive that you are missish about teh Moon Time. I’m proud to have humiliated everyone from Duane Reade cashiers to bodega-haunting drug dealers in my time as a fertile female, and, assuming that I have another fifteen to twenty years of this left, I figure I can disturb many, many more folks before I stop bleeding.

The last time I was home my friend Kate mentioned that I told her most of what she knew about periods when we were kids, because I started early and was happy to talk about it. I expressed surprise.

“OK, I was early, but there were other fifth graders,” I said. “Something to do with hormones in our chicken nuggets, I think.”

“Yeah, but they were ashamed,” Kate said. “You were happy to talk about it. Like, we couldn’t get you to stop.”

My sister claims that the bulk of my charm is in the fact that I never, ever change, and provided that you find any of these behaviors charming, I guess she’s right.

OId Age Setting in

I woke up at 6:30 this morning for no apparent reason. Well, actually, that’s not entirely true: I woke up at 6:30 this morning because I went to bed at 9:30 last night. I’m no doctor, but I’m pretty sure that’s enough sleep for anyone.

It’s pretty amazing that I managed this, though, because my neighborhood has gone insane. Some neighbor of mine was playing really weird European techno most of the evening, like loud – that volume that says, “You don’t know it yet, but you really NEED this music.” Well. I didn’t.

Opera Guy is also back. This is some random dude who roams my hood singing arias to himself. I’m not sure which mental illness would make a person do this. Maybe too much art school?

Anyway, in general lately, everyone has been very strange. I’ve taken a poll, and 9 out of 10 people who allow me to IM them agree that people are quite stare-y on the subway, unusually persistent in their pursuit of spare change, prone to fits of giggling in otherwise staid and serious meetings, unwilling to tell their partners what’s wrong, and so on.

I myself have been quite strange. For example, the other day I thought to myself, “I’m just so mad. I don’t even know why. I just hate everyone! And my boobs really hurt.” It took me a full day to realize that this condition is called PMS, and that I have had it for TWENTY YEARS.

Be careful out there, is all I can say.

Not an Original Observation, But…

…if birth control pills gave 80-year-old men erections, they would be distributed for free at every clinic, doctor’s office, and pharmacy across this great nation of ours. Instead, I just had to pay fifty goddamn American dollars (or 11 Euros) for my baby-go-ways, because my health insurance hates vag.

Or something like that. There was some fine print and I wasn’t feeling up to arguing. Which is how they get you.