Whatever Happened to Saturday Night?

Do you suppose that there is some medical condition that causes one to be in a constant state of tired, irritable (OK, hell with irritable.. how about down-right cranky), and forgetful? If I were to walk into my doctor's office and tell her that I'm exhausted, mean and feel like I'm losing my mind do you think she'd give me that "look" or would she ask me a few more questions and perhaps have a solution to my problems?

Tack on to the irritability some good old fashioned PMS, and it's making for a long day. I don't mean to be some rotten and grumpy.. it just comes out. And for some reason the day or two before "Day 1" arrives, when I am at my most grouchy... the people I live with seem to hone in on it with radar and drive me to the brink of a breakdown. For the love of all that is good... why can't they see that perhaps I'm a little more grouchy than usual (I used to be such a nice cheery person!) and back off and just let me be?!?

So I'm on the couch working on a sweater, and the cord of my laptop (which is resting on the coffee table) bumps into my almost empty beer bottle and sends it spilling all over the bottom of the coffee table and my Red Sox blanket. The same blanket I just put through the wash this very morning. So I put the sweater in my lap, clean up the mess.. pick up my needles.. and I've dropped a stitch. For the life of me I can't figure out which effing stitch I dropped. I can see that a stitch has laddered down my sweater... but alas I can't quite put my finger on which one. So while I am steaming about this... The Boy goes off to get us some coffee and leaves mine in the kitchen. Something about "I was being funny..didn't want you to spill it." Except when I ask him about it.. he says instead, "I didn't want to have to bother you." in a totally snarky tone of voice.

Fine. I get up, do some stuff.. .put the blanket back in the wash..get my coffee and sit back down. All sorts of mean and rotten things are going through my brain at this moment, and in the best interest of my marriage I decide not to spew them forward into the world. So I'm googling "how to figure out which effing stitch you dropped" and he turns on Top Gun. Right at the part with the piano scene and right before Goose kicks it. Even though I've seen that movie eleventy two million times, it still chokes me up at this part, every.single.time. This is the moment my rotten husband comes over to say he's sorry as he finally realizes I might be on the brink of a meltdown and mark your word it's not going to be pretty.

Cute only works if you are a small child and you've done something naughty. Cute will not work with me if I feel like something that has been dragged through the muddy sidewalk. Cute isn't going to work if I can't find the effing stitch I dropped. Cute isn't going to work if my stupid fingers are swollen again (WTF, it's not summer people.. and why does my face feel puffy too?) and the tightness makes me want to cut them off and have no fingers. Cute doesn't cut it when my mood is dark and twisty and I want nothing more than to be able to leave myself in a corner because believe it or not, I don't like myself much right now either. Skip the cute. Instead, try bringing me some damn ice cream and just say you are sorry. I might even say I'm sorry too.