HARK! The Angry Bees Cometh!

Gentle readers, here's where I'm really just blogging for me. You can read it. But I'm writing to get it out. This is not a cry for help or whatever. This is just "OmiHECK, my brain is full of those crazy, angry bees! Why does this have to happen every single, stupid month?!?!?!?" ... and then THAT is usually summed up with me hissing through gritted teeth that this is PROOF, pure and unadulterated, that GOD IS A MAN.

Do consider yourself warned. Perhaps you should, instead, ignore my rantings and watch something entertaining ...

HERE! This is good!


Or THIS!! Nerdy AND GOOD!!

And this is just part one. I know that there were parts 2.1 and 2.2 up as of ... this morning, anyways.

Yes, those are distractions. Lovely, lovely distractions!
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Yeah, you KNOW something's up when you're just unloading the dishwasher and you start to wonder how it'd go if you just started slicing on yourself with that Chef's knife.

No, I am NOT some emo teenager. I'm fully aware of this fact.

And I DIDN'T DO IT. The thought just, like, crossed my mind. And I was all, "Huh. That might solve something. ... Oh, but wait, I don't have money to go to the ER. And I'd have to get the kids out of their room and loaded in the car or something. ... Nope. Not a good idea." And I put the knife away in its block.

Yup, THIS is how I get a bit of an inkling that my evil cycle of hormonal-based madness and DOOOOOOOOM is on the way.

Other signs:

• I start to feel CONSTANTLY irritated by the people whom I love. I feel that my kids are UBER-needy and their voices GRATE upon my sanity.
• I find myself snapping like a snapping snapper at my dear and beloved husband ... who, at first, is taken slightly aback and wonders what's happened.
• I get WILDLY AND COMPLETELY STRESSED THE H OUT by the most random things. (That stupid sink issue? It's really stupid. I can still do the dishes. The dishwasher works. STILL, I feel like lurking around corners with the desperation of that one lady in that short story about yellow wallpaper ... or, perhaps, Bertha Rochester -- though I'm less violent than she was.)
• I find myself sitting at my desk, dinking around on Facebook and breaking down into tears as I (1) hear strains of Christmas music from a rerun of NCIS that Michael's watching across the room ... Really. ... Or (2) writing an email to my HAM Radio Elmer to ask if something might be wrong, since we were told that USUALLY the FCC gets new licensees listed in the database/assigned a call number in a week ... and it's been nearly ten business days and I'm feeling a little antsy but maybeI'mjustbeingimpatientandshouldIbeworried BecausereallyI'mstartingtogetalittleworriedPleasewritemebackKTHXBAI!
• All I want to do, really, is get that D***, stupid federal refund and go shopping. And buy things like MILK, VITAMIN WATER, TORTILLAS AS FAR AS THE EYE CAN SEE ... and WHY! OH! WHY CAN I NOT DO THESE THINGS????? IT'S THE END OF THE WORLD, CAN'T YOU SEE THAT?!?!?!?!?!?!?????
• I just want to lay in bed or a hot bath and read, read, read, read ... Seriously, my kids are four years old. They can get themselves water and string cheese. Can't I just throw some graham crackers in their direction and they can just play or something?

THESE HERE ARE ALL SIGNS OF THE GROWING INSANITY THAT IS THE ANGRY BEES.

Besides the regular bits of hormonal silliness -- feeling like I'm fat enough that a manatee looks like an even-more-skeletally-anorexic version of Lindsay Lohan, feeling like the whole world is just "off" ... you know, that general malaise and ennui.

So, yup, I had me a warm bath, reading the prequel to Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, I'm hitting the bottle (of Valerian), I let Michael know that, yes -- as he aptly suspects, the angry bees are in town. So if I act especially crazy, it's just a regular thing.

He's so nice .... I'm all, "I just feel like CRYING. For no reason!!" And he's all, "It's okay. Let it out." And I'm all, "NO! I HATE CRYING! I don't WANT to cry. I just want to feel NOT like CRYING!"

(Hey, I warned you, I'm CRAZY IRRATIONAL right now.)

But, yeah. I got almost all the dishes done. I have a MOUNTAIN of laundry to be folded. But I made our bed. And I'm doing my darndest not to yell at my sweet BAYBEES. And to get dressed and not have cravings for things like Vitamin Water (which, truly? I like it. But it's not AMAZINGLY DELICIOUS. Seriously. Like, it's when I get a craving out of the blue for CARROTS. Who craves carrots? Seriously???).

So, yeah. I know that I've been having stressful dreams. Dreams that I don't recall upon waking.

Other things that I usually notice that occur as I start getting all PMS-y ...

• I listen to LOTS of melancholy music. Like this:
  Katy Perry - Thinking of You
  (I really like that music video, btw. The CLOTHES! And the TRAGICNESSESSENCE!!! And that handsome boy from Kyle XY!! He's such a sweet boy.)
• I go grazing through the kitchen, yet usually cannot find anything that I want to eat. Sad.

Yeah. Weird, huh?

But, really. I promise that I'm not suicidal. I'm NOT going to cut myself ... partly because I'm just too dang practical and I don't need any new scars (I'm accident-prone ENOUGH as it is), I don't like pain, I have children that I'm responsible for, and it's just too dang expensive.

STILL, when the thought occurs to me that it just MIGHT be a good idea ... well, I know that the angry bees have arrived en masse. And that ... well ... there IS a reason for the crazy to hit the fan ... I don't have to LIKE it, but there's a reason.

And, really, it's only for a week. I can get through it. With my arsenal of good husband, good friends, (mostly-) good kids, GOOD bottle of Valerian capsules, and maybe some chocolate.