Moose in the Kitchen

Belching adds an easy panache to any conversation. Any conversation not taking place with a possible employer or an aging aunt, that is. If I could instigate a belching contest with anyone, it would be Angelina Jolie. I bet that woman can let rip a sound designed to make gassy giraffes quake in fear. As the mighty roar echoes in the distance she’ll wipe her mouth delicately with the back of her hand and excuse herself to visit Oscar de la Renta for an appropriate tiger chasing outfit. At least, that’s what I imagine she does with her spare time. Hunt tigers while wearing couture and burping. I could be wrong.

Ever feel especially full of pungent gas? Or strangely bloated? Perhaps frighteningly psychotic? Gentlemen, feel free to excuse yourselves now. If you’re over the age of 15, you know where this conversation is going and it ain’t pretty. But now’s about the time to say we’re pretty, lest you find yourself with an important appendage caught in the cheese grater.

I don’t like to blame things on PMS. I feel it’s important to take responsibility for my actions no matter what time of month it happens to be. That said, there are certainly days that are more dangerous than others. Unfortunately, these days never seem to align themselves to any sort of calendar date I could track. If I knew the date, I could simply sedate myself until the danger passed and continue on smug in the knowledge that I was a perfectly reasonable human being. But one month it will be the third, the next it will be the eleventh. There’s no identifiable pattern and who said that was OK? No really, I’d like to shake the hand of the person who stamped that form because I have a cheese grater that’s desperate for some action.

Psychosis is overstating matters. (But I’m a blogger. That’s what we do. Admit it, that’s why all the rest of you blog too. LICENSE TO EXAGGERATE.) It may be more accurately classified as a burning need to start trouble. With anyone, really. I feel grievously wronged in a way that may or may not have any resemblance to reality. Stapling my mouth shut and hiding the cheese grater is the best way to handle things. Sadly, this is precisely the time when I have no interest whatsoever in “the best way to handle things.”

Fighting during PMS feels SO DAMN GOOD. Until the PMS dissipates and I realize that I wasn’t righteous in the face of martyrdom. I was a jackass. And maybe cheese graters should only be sold to people who understand how to operate their ovaries.

After I’ve done a little recreational rabble-rousing and the subsequent grovelling apologies, the anti-Tony Robbins pops out from his plague-infested hole to taunt me. The anti-Tony Robbins is the shorter and less well-bred cousin of the anti-Christ. Every month he chooses a day or two to dance merrily around my bloated carcass chanting that no one loves me and my ambitions? Doomed to failure. Because I SUCK! He sticks his tongue out at me, steals my Snickers bar, and scampers off to rub his unwashed armpit on someone’s ham sandwich.

I’m happy to report that this month has been martyr-free and the anti-Tony Robbins did his (poorly choreographed) dance routine only to be wilfully ignored. But the cheese grater will remain buried in the garden until all hormones have returned to reasonable levels. Or I beat Angelina Jolie in a belching contest. Because who wouldn’t be in a good mood after beating Angelina Jolie in a belching contest?

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