Bob Wire Has a Point (It's Under His Cowboy Hat)

My PMS Is Killing Me

By Bob Wire, 4-11-08

As Winter continues to pin Spring to the mat in the fight for meteorological supremacy, my mood gets more foul by the day. Like John McCain when he puts his false teeth in upside-down, I have become difficult to live with.

Events of the last two weeks have conspired to bring my resentment and irritability to the boiling point, and I find myself attacking people who don’t deserve it. I’m not talking about my family. They deserve it. I’m talking about everyone else with whom I interact during the day. Luckily for the world at large, my job entails sitting alone in my studio most of the time, making shit up.

I don’t know if it’s a vitamin D deficency, Seasonal Affective Disorder, too long since my last poker night, or my uneasy suspicion that my very existence is a Big Joke, but I have developed a full-blown case of PMS: Put-upon Man Syndrome.

It hit me last night when Barb called to tell me she’d be a little late coming home from work. When the phone rang, I was at the kitchen sink, cussing, washing the stupid salad spinner. I hate the goddamn salad spinner. You put some lettuce in it, spin it for five seconds, and then you have three huge things to wash by hand. It’s beginning to make me resent lettuce.

Rusty answered the phone, and walked into the kitchen to put me on with Barb. She frequently will call home before she leaves work, to see if I need her to stop and pick anything up on the way (“Yeah, babe, can you bring me a quart of Wild Turkey and a loaded shotgun?”). “He’s busy,” Rusty told her, watching me wrestle with the salad spinner. I muttered something under my breath. Of course, when you don’t want kids to hear something, they will exhibit the hearing ability of a…well, of an animal that hears real good.

“He says why do you have to call first. Just come home, damn it.”

Gee, thanks, Rusty. Later, when Barb mentioned her surprise that I was too busy to talk to her, I explained that I was tired and irritable, and suffering a bout of PMS. She told me that I had also been showing signs of a case of PFSW (Pro Football Season Withdrawals), exacerbated by chronic case of MDA (Miami Dolphins Allegiance).

I had to agree that my symptoms are multiple and layered, like a chile relleno fart. Lack of sunshine, minimized social contact, cooped-up kids—all this has transformed my normally charming, irrascible personality into a truly threatening and malignant presence. Like Dick Cheney on a good day. Take this exchange at the grocery store, for instance.

Cashier: “Do you have your Albertson’s Club Card?”

Me: “Why? So you people can keep track of what I’m buying? You want to read my mail too? How about the PIN number to my ATM card? You need to know if I took a dump this morning? I haven’t! And you’re keeping me from it!”

Cashier: “Okay, how about a phone number then.”

It’s like that all day long, everywhere I go. I snap at the mailman because he’s stopped his truck, and is yakking on his cell phone when I need him to hurry up and get his lazy ass to my house so he can deliver those four credit card offers. I unleash a blood-spitting string of epithets at the driver in front of me because she failed to used her turn signal when she changed lanes. One of my kids’ friends calls after school to see if they can get together, and I jump down the friend’s throat, demanding to know how he got this phone number (it’s listed in the school directory).

I played a show with my band last weekend, and the bass player asked my why I moved a song from the middle of the second set to the end of the first set. My response: “Shut up, that’s why!”

My dog Houdini (who suffers no such bouts of winter angst) sleeps his days away, Goldilocks-style. He chooses a different bed to besmirch with his bulk every day. I walked past Speaker’s room this morning, and he was curled up on her pillow, probably dreaming about taking a nap.

“Hey, FAT ASS!” I yelled, snapping on the overhead light. He jerked awake with a little yip, a few drops of urine escaping onto the sheet. “Why don’t you get your lazy ass up and DO something for a change. The free ride’s over, tubby! Go fold some laundry or take out the garbage, you lazy shit.”

He jumped off the bed, ran right past me and out the dog door. I walked into the kitchen and looked out the sliding glass doors, and he was hunkered down in his doghouse, head resting on his front paws, eyeing me with a mixture of hatred and fear, with a little bath-wariness mixed in (I’ve tricked him into the tub more than once).

I’m tired of seeing snow. I’m tired of being inside. I’m tired of watching TV. I’m tired of finding entertainment for kids who are bored. I’m tired of mopping a muddy kitchen floor. I’m sick of the whine of snow tires. I’m tired of finding lost gloves. My skin is so pale it’s practically translucent. I’m tired of people asking me “how about this weather?” I’m tired of seeing a city full of cars that are all the same color: dirt.

I want the clouds to go back to Seattle where they belong. I want the sun shining boldly down, starting first thing in the morning. I want the golf courses to be soft and green. I want to break in my new sandals. I want to reacquaint myself with going commando in my cargo shorts. I want to play cards on the back deck. I want to play guitar on a bench by the river. I want to ride my bike without having to dress like a Sherpa.

I want to leave this winter behind and not look back. I want to take the big kitchen calendar, tear off every page with a month containing the letter R, and flush them down the toilet. I want to gather up all the sleds, the snowboards, the parkas, the snow boots, earmuffs, mittens, scarves and ski hats, and bury them in a time capsule. I want to put away the snow shovel and break out the lawn mower. I want to put away the Canadian Club and break out the Beefeater’s.

I want everyone who has used the phrase “spring has sprung” to kiss my pale white ass. Ditto for “spring’s just around the corner.” You know what’s just around the corner? Me. With a shovel. To hit you in the face.

I tell you, PMS may not be a solid legal defense for a savage killing spree, but if the sun doesn’t come out pronto, we will soon find out.

[Check back frequently at NewWest.net/BobWire. His mood’s got to improve soon. Right? Right…?]

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