The most inconvenient part about having had a total hysterectomy is not the annoyance of synthetic hormones or the worries about early-onset osteoporosis, but the inability to blame anything on PMS anymore.
See, I used to think I had PMS a lot. It turns out, I’m just a cranky bitch.
Like, see, today? Today sucked giant, hairy donkey balls for various reasons, and many of them were small and stupid reasons, and a couple of them were large and truly important reasons, but the end result was that I left the house to run a couple of errands and returned in a gigantic fit of pique.
I stormed around and flung my belongings about and eventually flopped down on the bed and stared at the ceiling, as that seemed the only activity I could engage in for longer than a few seconds without wanting to kill anyone.
(The children were, mercifully, otherwise occupied upstairs while this was happening.)
Otto came into the bedroom a bit gingerly, and I immediately felt a stab of regret at having behaved so poorly, but it was intermingled with annoyance that he was BREATHING MY AIR.
“I’m giving myself a time out,” I announced. I sort of hoped it would make him go away, but also hoped he would ignore me and make everything all better. Possibly with a magic wand or a genie that he could make arise from his cell phone.
Otto lay down on the bed next to me—somewhat gingerly, and far enough away that I probably couldn’t kick him easily—and picked up my hand. We lay there quietly for a while.
“It’s going to be okay,” he said after a bit.
I stared at the ceiling some more.
“I know,” I finally answered.
Chickadee came downstairs for something, then, and after talking to her for a minute she went off to do whatever she was doing, and I got up grumbling about all the work I had to do and headed back into the office.
Otto told me to do what I needed to do; he would go pick up the groceries and make dinner. I probably grunted in response.
He left and I did some work. When he returned with half a dozen grocery bags in hand, he walked into the office and opened my bottom desk drawer and dropped an entire grocery bag in.
“Shut up. They were on sale. You need an emergency stash.”
I peered into the bag. Snack sizes of M&Ms and Reese’s Cups and Snickers bars. I smiled for what felt like the first time in a week.
“I think I might be having an emergency RIGHT NOW,” I pointed out.
“Maybe so,” Otto agreed.
I thanked him with a mouthful of peanut M&Ms.
I continued working, and Otto made dinner. And I could just say “Otto made dinner” but that would not convey that he not only made a delicious dinner AND set the table AND insisted on cleaning up afterwards, but he bought two kinds of baguettes because the multigrain ones are yummy but Monkey refuses to eat any bread that “has seeds” (translation: has any visible whole grain, or any other kind of bump), and he gave Chickadee her very own bowl of pasta sauce sans meatballs, which she has just now decided she hates and was bereft upon considering attaining sauce without the dreaded contamination of them.
And try as I might to remain irascible and crabby, it really is hard to do so with this sort of treatment. Damn him.