Bout That Time

You know, scientists are always discovering little tidbits of oddly disconcerting information about our bodies. For instance, did you know that the hypothetical ancient purpose of your appendix is to digest tree bark? Don't try it. Trust me. I'd like to know the hypothetical ancient purpose of PMS. I mean, there has to be a reason I envision the teeth flying out of all the mouths I'd like to smack. And there must be cause for my overwhelming sense of self-pity greater than just to increase Verizon's stock value in whiny calls to Delta Hotel. My doctor said I needed more B vitamins, exercise, water and better nutrition and less coffee. I smacked her. Her teeth fell out. Who wants to exercise when all the moisture for six counties is resting in my abdomen and ankles? Who wants anything other than a salt lick and a bar of chocolate? I don't want to cook. I don't want to match up all the stupid socks.

Poor Delta Hotel. At least he knows the drill. Sure, he's out there leaving a Hollywood Star style butt impression on the comfortable chair in front of the warm fireplace with the big stupid dog as a footrest while I slave over what seems to be the aftermath of a missile assault in the kitchen, but at least he knows by now to keep his mouth shut and smile. And I just keep telling myself, "I chose this profession. I love this profession. There is NOTHING better than this profession." And then I pop another B Vitamin. And put the kids back to bed.