This week has been exhausting. Mentally, physically and emotionally. I bought a new car to haul all my market crap around, had my plans messed up and missed my chance to go out and have fun, had (and still having) a pain flare up that has made me resort to hiding in bed most days and I spent my weekend feeling like shit and being too sore to go out and do anything, too bored because of it and having some kind of hormonal screw-up that rendered me chemically incapable of rational thought. I’m not just talking cranky and PMS-y.
Thankfully, I don’t seem to PMS, but every now and again my body decides that it’s had enough stress to throw a wobbly and calls the Commies into the Fun house completely out of the blue. An unexpected Shark Week. I fell off multiple logs. Aunt Flo won’t piss off and go home. I’m sure you get the idea. Fortunately right now is not so serious. I’m not dealing with a war wound, mostly just feeling like I’ve been punched multiple times in the ovaries. I’ve employed the UN to initiate peace talks with my uterus and we’re in some pretty intense discussion about freedom of speech and who gets to do what on Tightarse Tuesdays.
What this means is that when I get emotional, it’s fucking nuts. In the space of ten minutes, I can go from tired, drowsy and generally lethargic to having a full-blown panic attack over the fact that I may have sneezed at the postman on a Thursday three weeks ago while polishing my brass monkey. I may or may not have been clad in frilly underwear and penis tassels at the time. It doesn’t matter.
We had to go out to the shopping centre this evening so I could get a few things and manthing could get stuff for burritos. He wanted burritos tonight. I inevitably was drawn to the ice cream isle. It was a beacon of cravings and sanity in the midst of a sea of hormones and mood swings. Unfortunately, my favourite kind of ice cream is boysenberry. In the last few years, this wondrous flavour has vanished off the shelves and I haven’t been able to find it anywhere. It’s some kind of conspiracy, I tell you. Point is, I went in seeking this delightful bitch of a dessert and failed. Fair enough. Next on my favourite flavours while hormonally unstable is some kind of caramel or honeycomb monstrosity. Hello diabeetus! Unfortunately, this also seems to have taken to hiding beyond the reach of my ravenous taste buds.
What I was presented with in the isle was not what I was hoping for. I was forced to choose between some kind of mess of flavours that sounded more like some kind of odd torture than a creamy dish. Burnt fig, inserted with the hearts of small children. Triple-choc-our-lawyers-say-this-can’t-be-served-on-Sundays. Ice cream with REAL FRUIT! – Right. Have you been putting the plastic stuff in up until now? Lite and Creamy! Allows you to shoot laser beams out of your eyes! Point is, my choices sucked. Being the emotional wreck that I was, I paced restlessly up and down the isle three times before manthing realised I was no longer behind him. He rolled the trolley up beside me and asked what was wrong. I imagine I looked somewhere between ravenous and exhausted. Probably not the best combination when added to my daggy track pants and hoodie with a mess of purple hair. I explained my predicament about the ice cream. I was faced with a decision that no PMS-ing woman should ever have to face – What kind of ice cream do I want to shovel into my face hole?
Honest to god, the concept alone infuriated me. By the time I was done, I was almost in tears. Yes, I nearly cried in the ice cream isle because I couldn’t make a decision. Five minutes of frantic pacing and peering into the frosty freezers was enough to make that little voice inside my head want to lock itself in a cabinet just to get away from the bitchy comments my brain was making about flavours.
“98% fat free, huh? You WOULD get that, you fatty!”
“Oh, yes. Get the fruit one. That will make eating an entire container SO much better!”
“Go on. Get the home brand stuff. It’s REAL classy”
“Look at that. It’s pretentious ice cream! Get that one and pretend that you’re not walking around here looking like a bogan.”
“You want the triple chocolate. Of course you do. I bet you also want to eat an entire cake and rub butter on your nipples, you sugar-whore!”
By the end of the ordeal, I had simply thrust my hand into the nearest cabinet and grabbed the first thing manthing suggested. I was done with this ice cream bullshit. I didn’t want that flavour, but like hell I was going to go back through the process of deciding. Actually, in all fairness, it wasn’t that bad. I mean, I still haven’t tried it since we came home and ended up going out fairly shortly after to help clean a house for an inspection, but that’s not the point.
The fact of the matter is that I have ice cream, Iron Man is best pony and my body is a complete dick. I also have no idea where I’m going with this post and have re-written it three times now. I’m going to go and make midnight burritos (fuck yeah!) and sneak spoons of ice cream into my mouth while nobody’s looking. Not that they’d care, but it tastes better when you’re under the impression that you’re not allowed to. Then pass out.
Have I ever told you how much I love my bed? Maybe that should be my next post “Poetry’s not dead – Ode to my bed”