I have made no secret about my love of vicodin. A love that ensures we never, ever have it in our house. It's yummy delicious stuff that generates a feeling of "all is well and I hold all the secrets of the universe" for me . My sister swears that yoga enthusiasts also get this same zen from those pretzel poses I can never seem to twist my body into. And if this is true, I have a hearty new respect for yoga, and will try harder not to just think of it as "the class you try really hard not to fart in".
So back to the magic. A few days ago I got an attack of PMS unlike I've experienced in a long time. I could almost feel the tiny feet of the PMS demons as they ran around my brain looking for something to grab hold of. Rummaging through my drawers, tossing file folders over their shoulders as they looked for the perfect thought to which they could attribute the maudlin sauce they were about to pour all over my brain.
Because when you have PMS you absolutely, never ever, believe that you are sad or angry or freaked out because it's hormones. It's always because of something. And the more ridiculous the thought the more the PMS demons love it and try to make you believe it. They found the Guilt File where I had logged that I faked a "school meeting" to get out of family game night and go to TJ Maxx. They turned up the Paranoia Papers that read as though a demented school teacher made me write "nobodylovesmenobodylovesme" over and over again. And they even tried to use an outdated Anger Attache that detailed how my husband surely was the worst man on earth because he hasn't cleaned the bathroom since 1999.
Those buggers brought it. But so did I. I grabbed my purse, headed to Jewel (Or "the Jewels" as we say in Chicago) and bought a pack of Miller Light. The ones with the new Vortex bottle necks that quite frankly really concern me. I think the ribbed for your pleasure styling of those has teenage boy + emergency room written all over it. Anyway, I got my beer, drove home and parked in front of the house. Then PMS dialed some girlfriends and sat in my minivan laughing, drinking and telling stories until the coast was clear and the kids were in bed. I'm not ashamed to admit at one point I ate a pack of Barbie fruit snacks I found in the glove box once the munchies kicked in.
I was so proud! I didn't succumb! Cheap beer and laughter brought those buggers down to size. But...they retaliated. And the next day I was set upon with the worst migraine I have ever experienced. One of those, squinty eyed, nauseous, "oh my God I'm gonna stroke out do you smell burnt toast I think I smell burnt toast" headaches. I drove with one eye open to pick up the kids from a play date and asked the mom if she had any Tylenol. No, but she had these she said as she shook a prescription bottle at me. I didn't even look at what they were (they were vicodin) I just swallowed. The headache was that bad, or I'm that indiscriminate, likely both.
By the time my husband got home that night I was not only headache free but high as a kite and convinced that I had figured out how we were going to pay for our retirement. Sponge Cones! It's a sponge, with a hole in it where you stick your ice cream cone (smaller sizes available for Popsicles) so they don't melt all over your hand. I held up my prototype, "See, see" I said, "the dairy just drips right down onto the sponge and is absorbed! We are going to be so rich."
He made me go to bed.
The next day, after I figured out why all the sponges in our house had holes cut out of the middle, I congratulated myself. Oh yes mam, I had beaten the PMS demons, headache and all. Score 1 Miller Light and borrowed medication. Score 0 PMS. Though I am quite disappointed, because next month I won't be allowed the vicodin. My husband was all "Let's be healthy thinkers and also keep you out of the pokey" and I was all "Fine, but I totally had the start of a great invention that was going to pay for the kids colleges and the bail money. So don't blame me when someone else brings Febreeze scented condoms to market." He promised he wouldn't.