Chubby Girl Brigade

PMS Confession: Having My Cake and Eating It, Too

I had this going through my mind before the PMS hit, but the PMS pushed me over the edge. Add to PMS that I'm finishing school, so I have a paper and final exam Tuesday and a LONG paper due next week. So, a lot of work. Add conversations with Ty about the wonder that is cake.

And so I bought a cake. I needed (yes, NEEDED!) vanilla cake, chocolate judge layers, mocha cream
outside, and flowers, which in turn required me to custom order it.

Here's where it's embarrassing: The bakery asked me what they should write on the cake. I hadn't thought about how to answer that! I panicked. The first word that came to mind was just "congratulations". The bakery man on the phone paused, so I went into a long rambling lie about buying the cake for my friends because school's ending. I felt pretty stupid having to lie to the bakery guy about my cake, and so on the walk back home I figured I should email it in.

Then I got to my building and went to check my mailbox here an old and somewhat deaf man asked me what the cake was for. I launched into my rapid fire "myfriendsarefinishingourfinalsandschool'salmostoversoIgotuscake!" I then had to repeat the lie slowly, clearly, and loudly.

He told me not to eat the whole thing myself.

PMS Confession: Our Problem

Me: Ugh. Why do I have to have a period?

Zippy: Yes, why do WE have to have a period? Can't you just suffer in silence?

Later that same day...

Zippy: Ugh. My back hurts.

Me: Don't you mean OUR back hurts? Can't you just suffer in silence?

Zippy: Well, WE didn't mow the freakin' lawn.

PMS Confession: The Blame Game

"The Hormones" absolutely force me to eat half a package of cookie dough. I wake up the next morning with a humongous, bloated belly (which ironically, makes me look quite pregnant). I then proceed to blame the bloat on "The Period."

Send your PMS Confession to:
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All submissions will remain anonymous so as to protect the not-so-innocent from social repercussions.

PMS Confessions: Why Couldn't I Stop?

So I hear it happens to everyone. That one month where the stars align, and you completely over draw your bank account. I am usually very fiscally responsible so it really bothered me. I manage my bank account online. I check my credit report every year. But being newly married I have found it difficult to manage the spending habits of another person as well as my own. But as you will hear the financial stars had aligned with another special cycle to make this a particularly bad day.

My husband and I had been apartment hunting for about two months when we found the perfect place with just one apartment left for rent. We had plans to run out to the manager's office after I got off work to give our down payment, and reserve our space. I called the office to confirm this, and went online to check the status of our bank account. I knew it was going to be tight four a couple of days as we were paying essentially three months worth of rent in one month. As the leasing agent picked up the phone, the bank of america screen popped up showing a red number as the balance (I could explain exactly how this happened but it will take away from the story suffice it to say that my husband had 1200 in checks in his wallet he told me he'd deposited earlier that week). Adaptable as I am I started discussing the idea moving our meeting to Friday (when I got paid) with the lease agent. She said , "Oh, that's too bad, because we have a couple in the office right now inquiring about that space, and we would have held for you until tonight but our policy states that we can not hold an apartment for anyone longer than one day. Now a person who was functioning normally would have just stopped right there, resigned themselves to waiting for another apartment , or looking elsewhere. But no, not I.

The floodgates had opened. My throat choked up (mind you I was at work, in my cubicle surrounded by co workers.) As the leasing agent further explained their policy and apologized, My eyes' filled with tears. Don't cry, Don't cry, Don't cry... the rational adult pleaded from within. As long as I didn't have to talk I'd be fine. The leasing agent finished, and said, " would you like me to put you on a waiting list?"
no answer from me...

"Hello?"

I burst, " NO! I don't want to be put on a waiting list!" Typing and phone conversations around me stopped... and what was heard was the most pitiful sobbing, gasping, and snorting spell ever. I mean preposterous, monster crying, heaving... unable to breathe because I was crying so hard. It was all I could do to keep from screaming. Why was I so upset?!

The leasing agent with a very soft voice, said," Why don't you call me back. I won't sell the apartment yet, we can talk about it." I hung up without speaking because I couldn't I was crying too hard.

Lyn, a coworker called over the wall...
"It's O.K... You want me no come over there?"

"No!" I snorted. And it went on like that horrible crying on and off for at least a couple of hours.

I tried calling my husband to empathize, but he was in class. He picked up the phone, and whispered, "Can't talk now. In class. Bye." This made it worse, as my illogical mind assumed he must not love me anymore, and my imagination started thinking about him in class surrounded by women who look like Liv Tyler and Natalie Portman (two of his favs) smiling and flirting. This of course only exacerbated the problem. Every time I thought I had it under control it would come back. And I couldn't run to the bathroom because I'd have to walk through the whole office with my face smeared with mascara and tear streaks through my blush. This seemed a worse fate at the time than letting everyone hear me sob. Not to mention that even the thought of standing up seemed to intensify my tears. I would have gladly banged my head strongly against a wall if only to knock myself out and stop crying. It was awful. Just awful. I sat at my desk for the rest of the day, and didn't leave until everyone else in my area had left.

It still makes me sick to remember it, so embarrassing . Why couldn't I stop?

I got the apartment though.

Send your PMS Confession to:
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All submissions will remain anonymous so as to protect the not-so-innocent from social repercussions.

PMS Confessions: Calories Schmalories

In my PMS, I have eaten in the last 3 days:

5 cadbury creme eggs
an entire bag of starburst jellybeans
4 donuts (all in one day!!!)
at least 12 handfulls of mini - hershey's/snickers mix
1/2 pint Haagen Daz dulce de leche ice cream
1/2 bag whopper eggs.... the ones you lick and rub on your lips and they make fun easter lipstick

I think that's all. Well, that's all my brain is choosing to remember. There will probably be more chocoate and creme eggs added to the list in the next 24 hours. As well as some chocolate ice cream. And the body is screaming for a good greasy bacon cheeseburger.

Since this is a confession, does that mean the calories are forgiven and just go away like if I were confessing a sin and it's forgiven? That is how this works right? (note: this is a PMS confession, so your answer better be yes. If not... well.... I don't need to complete that....)

Send your PMS Confession to:
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All submissions will remain anonymous so as to protect the not-so-innocent from social repercussions.

PMS Confessions: Not a PMS Confession

Send your PMS Confession to:
[email protected]
All submissions will remain anonymous so as to protect the not-so-innocent from social repercussions.

This is not a PMS confession, but rather a “Women’s Health” confession, but it might as well be a PMS confession for all the trouble it causes me.

I get yeast infections, very bad ones. If you’ve ever had a yeast infection you what the fiery depths of hell in your underpants feel like. It’s not so much fun.

A few nights ago I found myself in the fiery depths of hell. I’d already taken 2 treatments of Monistat to no avail, and nothing short of standing in traffic would ease my pain. I remembered that I had a prescription for Diflucan at the pharmacy, so I called to see if I could get a refill. The conversation went as follows:

Me: Hello, can I get a refill of my Diflucan, also known as the most comforting drug in the universe?

Mr. Pharmacy: Well, the prescription has expired, so you know, you’ll have to get a new one from the doctor before I can help you.

Me: Well, isn’t that just ducky, it’s 8PM, the doctor is gone and we live a small town with nothing more than an emergency room that dispenses band-aids at $10.00 a pop.

Mr. Pharmacy: Um, really sorry, I still can’t help you.

I thought about begging but I realized that this man did not understand my dilemma. Dejectedly I hung up the phone and commenced to cry. My very sweet husband, who puts up with so much of my crap, tried to consol me and talked me down from the ledge I was thinking of climbing out on. He ushered me upstairs and drew me a bath. He suggested that I soak and clean myself up and then we ‘d look on the internet and see if we could find any home remedies.

As we were looking on the internet I asked him if men had any “issues” to deal with. “Um, no not really, unless you count your peep getting caught in your jeans when you zip up.” Oh, this is so not fair! Men get to stand up to pee, no periods, no infections, no nothing. How is this right? They must have some condition that afflicts them!! But alas, it’s not to be.

As we finished looking at the internet and found a solution to my problem for the night I realized that if men had yeast infections we would be able to buy Diflucan over the counter. This is my new mission, I’m writing the FDA today, and tomorrow, I’ll start calling. Hell hath no fury like a yeast infection angered.

PMS Confessions: Forced to dump great guy (but not REALLY)

(Word to my mother: this isn't my PMS confession. I don't have a boyfriend and I don't smoke. Also, my crying candy of choice is Milk Duds.)

When I got home from work and I saw him sitting on the computer, chatting with his ex girlfriend, I swear I thought I was going to have a coronary. That might have been all of the fried chicken I'd consumed earlier catching up to me, but STILL.

I stood there with my hands on my hips, waiting for him to notice that I'D noticed, but all he did was sit there, laughing at her (probably) corny jokes, and typing away like a madman.

Me: "What do you think you're doing? Why are you talking to this girl?"

Him: "We're friends... you know... maybe you should get a few of your own."

That, my friends, is when I completely lost it. I ran to the kitchen, lit a cigarette on the gas range (I was having a hard time finding a lighter or matches anywhere around), and started crying. After I finished smoking, I went upstairs to cry some more. I wanted him to come upstairs right away and tend to my womanly needs, but of course he remained glued to his chair, enraptured by his evil ex.

When he finally did get upstairs, I broke up with him. Well, actually, it went more like this.

Me: Why are we together? I mean, what's the point of being in a relationship with you when all you're going to do is treat me like crap? I don't know... I don't know...

Him: Uh... babe... do you want some tea or something? I mean, I know it's "that time of the month..."

I started bawling like a baby in his arms, mumbling incoherently (he later told me that I was complaining about there not being enough chocolate in the house). Later on, I "broke up" with him again. Pretty much the same, only a much harsher verbal attack.

Me: "I can't stand you sometimes. I wish you'd just grow up! I can't be with my SON."

Him: "What are you going on about? We don't have any kids yet, sweetie."

Me: "Just...Why don't you do something useful and run down to the pronto mart. Chocolate."

When he got back, holding a few of packages of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, I still wasn't satisfied.

Me: "I TOLD YOU TO BRING ME ICE CREAM, TOO!"

Him: "No, actually, you didn't. Oh, and can I have some of your chocolate?"

I can't stand to be told I'm wrong - particularly when I'm dangerously menstrual - and the NERVE of him asking me to share my peanut butter cups! He should have known better. Clutching my chocolate to my chest like a madwoman, I took refuge in the bathroom upstairs (locking the door, of course), and ate all 12 reese's cups.

Send your PMS Confession to:
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All submissions will remain anonymous so as to protect the not-so-innocent from social repercussions.

PMS Confession: What's with the packaging?

Just once, I wish someone would make a decent tampon with a comfortable, yet flushable applicator in a flushable wrapper so I didn't have to spend half my time in the unisex bathroom trying to figure out what to do with the !@##!@#$! plastic wrappers. (Current method: wrapping them in the paper towels I used to dry my hands and then giving them another pass under the running faucet to futher seal the wrapper in a cocoon of damp wood product.) I'd prefer the only evidence of my period be my hellish PMS, thankyouverymuch. (Of course, this is from the woman who uses the bathroom with both the fan AND the faucet running so people can't hear what she's actually doing. Who do I think I'm fooling?)

Send your PMS Confession to:
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All submissions will remain anonymous so as to protect the not-so-innocent from social repercussions.

PMS Confession: Hoards and Hysterics

My confession is really a two-parter.  The first part deals with my habit of hoarding things; in this case, feminine hygiene products.  See, I have a period that typically goes like this: heavy, absurdly heavy, near-heamorrage, heavy again, light, piffling, trifling, spotty, spotty, gone.  So all I really need are super-absorbancy and teen-strength products.  (Why they call them 'teen' I'll never know.  You know those adverts with the skinny girls with flawless skin doing aerobics, horseback riding and baking a perfect lemon meringue pie all while espousing how wonderfully active and comfortable they are during menses?  Well, my teenage years were nothing like that.  I do recall a lot of curling up with the heating pad and praying for the merciful arms of Death, though.)

Be that as it may, I'm losing sight of my confession.  To wit, hoarding tampons and pads.  See, I'm always suckered by those multi-packs that you see in the shops.  I keep thinking that they'll be a great savings as they have everything a gal could need all in one box.  No more hunting around through drawers trying to find the right tampon, no more running to the store when I've discovered all I have are 'light days' products...  Just open the box and boom!  Everything's there, all nice and neat and compartmentalized.  The problem, of course, being that there are too many medium and light absorbancy tampons, with not enough of the kind that can absorb enough liquid to prevent flooding in low-lying areas.  So I always need to buy extra super-absorbancy tampons and my drawers are littered with their less robust counterparts.  So what do I do every month?  I buy another multi-pack and add to the collection.  I don't know what I'm going to do with all of them.  Perhaps keep my family high and dry should the next Great Flood come.

As for the hysterics, I suppose that's really more of a DMS (during menstruation, natch) confession.  I was so whacked out this afternoon that I wound up hyperventilating and twitching like a four-year-old who's eaten all their Hallowe'en candy in one night.  Why, you might ask?  Because I spent three dollars more than I had planned on at the grocery store.  That's right.  Thanks to the crazy hormones, those three dollars took on such significance that I went into full-blown hysterics.  The snot-running-out-the-nose kind.  Always attractive in a heavy woman, don't you think?  What could make it worse, you ask?  Having a fit like that in front of my skinny, pretty 18 year old cousin who was visiting for the afternoon.

Next month, I'm renting a storage locker and staying there until I'm fit to be released into society.

Send your PMS Confession to:
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All submissions will remain anonymous so as to protect the not-so-innocent from social repercussions.

PMS Confession--The Unintended Bikini Wax OR The Confession That If You Were To Look Up "Too Much Information" In The Dictionary, You Would See A Screenshot Of This Post. YOU HAVE NOW BEEN WARNED. READ THE COMMENTS WITH CAUTION.

Can I submit a period-related story that has more to do with an embarrassing situation created by the actual period and not necessarily about being a psychobeast the week before?

I'm assuming I can. (attention skittish male readers: feminine hygiene products and their uses will be mentioned)

Anyway, I had just started my period and since I'm not a tampon-user (haven't ever got the hang of inserting one without causing pain), I stuck the maxi where it was supposed to go. I headed out for my morning walk, as is my custom, despite the fact that having done it for 5 years, I'M STILL A HEFTY HEIFER. So all through my walk, I noticed a prickly feeling in the crease between my left leg and my private area. Not wanting to expose early-morning commuters to the female version of the baseball player's "adjustment," I refrained from doing anything about it. A whole hour I walked with the slight needle-ish pain. When I got home, I immediately ran into the bathroom to deal with the situation and lo, and behold, I discovered that my pad had folded over (must have done so when I pulled my underwear up) and had adhered rather fiercely to the hair down there. There was nothing to be done but give it a quick rip and thus I got the unintended "bikini wax." I had to put up with residual pain all day long. The shower was the worst. It felt like a horde of bee stings.

O Menopause, where art thou?

Send your PMS Confession to:
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All submissions will remain anonymous so as to protect the not-so-innocent from social repercussions.