Don't Even Think About, Look At, or Touch that Brownie

Let me take a moment to define what PMS is (at least in my case):

Standing in front of an open refrigerator wearing pj shorts because I'm hot, but also wearing a fleece jacket over my night shirt because I'm cold. (Insert unspoken bitchy remark about how my husband keeps the house at the average temperature of umpteen degrees below zero).

While standing in front of the open fridge, I'm munching down a handful of nacho cheese Doritos because the bag was the first thing I saw (and could reach without the step-stool) in the pantry.

When nothing in the fridge looks like it will satisfy my craving, I assess the counter top and reach for Michael's last remaining snicker doodle (because some else ate the last remaining chocolate frosted brownie that I actually really, Really, REALLY WANTED and had been craving, thinking about, OBSESSING over eating for the last hour. But alas the brownie is gone). Insert comment about how anyone living in the house without a vagina better steer clear of of my god damn brownies.

Since my brownies are MIA, I instead turn to a handful of raisinettes which do NOT mix well with the aftertaste of Doritos. Needing to wash that down, I grab a Dr. Pepper.

Now that the pallet is clear and ready for new consumption, I pop another salty, crunchy Dorito in my mouth (again, it's all about proximity in these times of desperation) and all the while I'm crunching this poor Dorito, I'm thinking about how I really want something soft, chewy, and sweet (like a chocloate frosted brownie).

Still freezing/sweating, I retreat upstairs to go to bed, irrationally annoyed at my husband for a handful of no good reasons (I take that back as he is probably the one who ate my brownie). I hop into bed thinking "So God help Michael. If he even snores at all tonight, I'll shove my foot up his ass with the force of a charging rhino in heat."

Next morning, put on work acceptable fat pants, bitch about crappy hair day, and feel bloated all day at work. Insert comment about how I hate skinny bitches who can eat whatever they want and put on a size 2 pair of pants.

Considering Michael works for Homeland Security, I felt this warning would be appropriate for all:


All I know is that tonight, I'm getting a snow cone. And Michael is paying.