Got PMS?

Um...where the f*%$ is my mother f&*^ing pyramid???  (That's "period" for those of us who are slow...I stole the euphemism from a friend a few years back.)

Unless I'm giving birth to Jesus in nine months (cause that's the only person you can give birth to without actually having sexy time), something has gone terribly wrong.

If I am having Jesus...RAAAAAAAD!!!  I imagine there is a lot of free schwag involved.

So, I'm turning 36 in exactly one week, but apparently I'm already going through menopause.

Nice!

I'm happy to know that my body is starting to give up all hope that anything is ever going to want to live in my womb.  I guess it's thinking "What's the point of setting up shop like this month after month if nobodies every going to move in?"  Who can blame it...it's freakin' exhausting.

Imagine getting the house ready, doing the laundry, making up the guest rooms, buying the groceries, etc., for guests who keep postponing their trip (f$%^ing flakes)...Now imagine doing this every month for 22 years!!!  I say, TO HELL WITH 'EM!   They aren't coming, let's shut the place down and do some world travel!

...yeah...that's what I say...

(Let's ignore the fact that I could technically, biologically speaking, be the mother of a 22 year old human being right now-- The horrah!  THE HORRAAAAH!!!!)--EMPHASIS ON BIOLOGICALLY SPEAKING--cause I was a bit of a late bloomer--I played with Barbie's til I was 13...that child would have also had to have been Jesus.

To be fair, my pyramid is only five days late...and actually...I think I'm starting to get cramps right now, but as much as I hated my pyramid BEFORE it got all irregular on me, I REALLY hate it now.  As if painful cramps that feel like my internal organs are being squeezed between a rabid pit bull's jaws of death for two days weren't enough, now I have the added insult of being reminded that I'm really getting super duper old.

Like old enough to start needing hormone replacement therapy...and possibly a new hip.

Whatever.  At least I still look like I'm 25...okay...27.  At least that's what some dude told me earlier this week.

He was 22.

He asked me for my number.

No, I am not joking.

Well, on the bright side, Aunt Flo is probably still going to come to town from time to time, and probably for at least another decade or so, just not when she promises.  And that's okay.  Maybe I don't need to see her like clock work every 28 days.

She's kind of a bitch.