5 Things to Avoid When You’re PMSing

The other day, I was bawling like a toddler at the top of my lungs after watching a commercial. A commercial. I thought to myself, Why am I crying like a lunatic? What is wrong with me?

As the second question looped in my head, I knew what was wrong. My period was coming. I don’t care what anyone says, Aunt Flo is a real twisted sister. She barges into your life, disrupting your emotional health, your physical well-being and the poor suckers that have to put up with your shit every month.

When you're PMSing, you want to steer clear of anything that might send you on attack. Avoid these 5 things, and you'll be golden.

In order to make everyone’s lives a little less painful (and give my family fewer reasons to murder me in my sleep), there are a few things I’m going to avoid when I’m PMSing until I can get my emotions in check.

1. Watching television or going to the movies. No TV shows. No commercials. No movies. No movie previews. No YouTube. Not even a funny cat video. Because that cat is going to be wearing a dress that reminds me of that time my grandma … oh crap. I’m going to start crying again.

2. Having any kind of conversation with my mother. I love her dearly, but when I’m about to start riding the cotton pony, everything is fighting words. Her disdain for country music sets me ablaze, even though I don’t particularly care for the genre. Her opinions of my wardrobe, makeup, and hairstyle are unwanted, especially when Aunt Flo is whispering in my ear, “Sic ’em!”

3. Asking for someone’s opinion. I know that I’m right, dammit. There is nothing anyone can do or say to change my mind, whether I’m asking about dressing for the weather, dinner options or what to watch on TV. Next month, I’m going to take charge and do what I want. All. Week. Long.

4. Consuming alcohol. Hear me out before you get your underoos in a knot. I love Margarita Mondays, Tipsy Tuesdays, Wine Wednesdays, Thirsty Thursdays, etc. I’m all about the boozy fun, but during Shark Week, alcohol’s enjoyable traits (Dancing, Laughing, Singing) are replaced by their friends (Crying, Sleeping, Whining). Besides, I’d probably end up lying in bed, caressing a hot water bottle in the fetal position until the cramps subside.

5. Leaving the house. You know what? Might as well just give up before I start. When I feel as bloated as if I’ve eaten 15 hot dogs and three cupcakes and drunk a gallon of Coke, I know I don’t look too hot. I sure as hell don’t feel gorgeous. Why not spare everyone the trouble of telling me I look fine all four times I change my outfit before we go out? I’ll happily stay home with those hot dogs and cupcakes.

I guess that doesn’t leave a whole lot for me to do when I’m PMSing. I could spend that time cleaning, reading a laugh-out-loud book, or writing. But that sounds like too much productivity when I’m miserable. I suppose I’ll just have to use that time wisely … and spend it shopping with my tablet in bed.

What do you try to avoid when you’re PMSing or, for dudes, when your lady is PMSing?

©2015 Christine Wojdyla, as first published on Scary Mommy

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Things You Shouldn’t Do When the Side Effects of Your Meds Include Anxiety

I pinched a nerve in my back. Which, if you’ve never done so, is one of the most painful experiences I’ve ever had the “pleasure” of dealing with. I believe that’s what I did about a month ago, when I thought it was just from yoga-ing without stretching…but now I think it was just something waiting to happen. And the yoga-ing was the straw that broke the camel’s my back. It wasn’t nearly as debilitating the first time, and it went away relatively quickly.

This time, it came back with a vengeance. A vengeance that was not willing to part with me quite so quickly. And it all happened days before I was supposed to board a plane to New York for one of the biggest parties of the year. Brian almost didn’t even let me go!

So I went to the doctor. Who prescribed muscle relaxers(corti-something something) and steroids (prednizone) after taking 37 seconds to press my back in 3 places (which will cost me something in the 3-digits)…thus diagnosing me with a pinched nerve in my lower back (sciatic nerve methinks, but non-radiating). She has since refilled the steroids (with a different, apparently more potent version) and told me to get my butt to physical therapy, a place I’m all too familiar with. And now that I’m  off the drugs, I’m stuck with a twice-daily PT routine that feels as tough as my most intense yoga class. Or personal training.

But when I was on the drugs, I got some serious fucking anxiety. Now I have a tendency toward anxiety and depression,  and whatever good Prednizone did to my back, it was wicked and evil to my brain. It was the worst anxiety attack I’ve had in years. And I’ve had a few.

So I did what any normal girl would do when hopped up on pain killers with a side of anxiety. I did everything wrong.

Things you shouldn’t do during an anxiety attack

When the meds for the pinched nerve in my back made me absolutely insane, I decided to do these really stupid things that only magnified my anxiety to the nth degree. Learn from my lessons people.

Have your palms read

In my infinite wisdom, while out with some girlfriends at a ladies day out event, I thought it would be brilliant to have my palms read. Sure I didn’t really believe in any of that mumbo jumbo but figured I’d give some quack 20 bucks, and she’d tell me some of the badass things in my future. Of course, I didn’t realize that her visions would be vague and could lean toward the negative or positive depending on where my head was. And fucking being the lunatic on drugs that I was,  I definitely leaned toward the nego. And my anxiety was through the roof the rest of the day. And just to drive the nail a little deeper, I fucking believed that bitch. The minute she told me I was on a lucky streak, I took everything she said and mentally filed it away.

Consume alcohol

With all that anxiety, you may find yourself in search of chocolate. When the only chocolate in the house requires baking (fuck that) or is the last piece of Easter candy (a hollow cookies and cream bunny) that you planned to snap photos of for a potential blog post next Easter (that you’re probably not going to write anyway), you know what you have to do. You open a bottle of Bailey’s and pour a largely portioned shot (twice) and take pictures. Since your tolerance is pretty much shite, you’re drunk…and you anxiety is now magnified even more. You’re probably going to start crying pretty soon, aren’t you? Oh, you’re too smart for that shit? Me too, guys. Me too.

Upgrade your website host

When your anxiety is already raging, there’s no time like the present to fix what ain’t broken. Well, my site was kind of broken. But not really It was running super slow, and the people at DreamHost told me if I  spent more money, my site would run faster. And everyone wants that, right? So I jumped on my computer after a few shots and went to town. I also panicked the fuck out and spent 30 minutes chatting with customer support who told me I should avoid making any changes for a couple days while it transferred over. They also said some other stuff which I promptly forwarded to Brian.

Contact your boyfriend who’s out with his friends

So now I’m freaking out about my stupid soothsaying palms, drunk, with a broken website…and alone. Brian was out with a friend,  catching a flick. After movies, they tend to stand outside and talk…sometimes for hours even when it’s balls cold outside. I couldn’t handle that much more of my anxiety alone. I needed to drag someone else into my crazy bullshit. Since Brian voluntarily lives with me knowing I come with my own brand of crazy… I played the part of psycho girlfriend.

First, I checked the runtime of said movie. Then, realizing he was still in the movie, sent a text…something along the lines of “hey. I’m crazy right now. My anxiety is killing me slowly. Please come home as soon as possible so I don’t accidentally die over-analyzation.” I made that last part up. I don’t think I actually thought I was going to die. But my brain was not pleased with where I was at.

When he didn’t respond shortly after the movie was out, I sent a Gchat message. Because crazy requires company…and gchat lets you see if someone has seen your message.  And I could be a little less anxious knowing he hadn’t actually seen my message. See? Batshit crazy. But I was just like…”hey no big deal, but just…let me know you saw my message. Kthxbye.”

When in doubt, visit Facebook

As if my anxiety wasn’t already rockin’, I took to Facebook where everyone’s joys were flying all over the place. Why is it that when you’re super anxious, Facebook is all look how happy everyone is? And when you’re flying high on life, it’s all, “OMG look at all this SAD.” Why? Because Facebook is a dick. Luckily, I have some pretty bad ass friends who I shared my anxiety with. They told me I probably shouldn’t have done anything I did, but hey while you’re here, let’s talk about squirrel-foxes, macaroons and nannies. Best. People. Ever.

Thankfully,  the drugs are out of my system and I’ve returned to normal levels of crazy. Well…normal for me, anyway.

When have you had to deal with crazy side effects?  Any experiences with psychics or palm readers?  Do you get anxiety? What have you done while anxious that just increased your anxiety tenfold?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

I’d Like to Raise My Glass to My Parents for Being Hilarious

I grew up in a bar. I don’t say this to shock you; I say this because it’s true. And it’s not a bad thing.

Every summer, Tuesday nights were exciting because my brother and I would pick up cheeseburgers and kiddie cocktails on our way to Dad’s softball games. We’d snack out of Styrofoam containers while Dad threw killer pitches. Then we’d get bored and run off to the playground next to the field.

After the game, we’d head back to the bar where Mom was occasionally serving drinks and Dad was celebrating with the team. The other bar kids and I would jam out to 80’s hair metal on the juke box, hustle grown-ups at pool, race around the back alley, and convince bar patrons to steal a grocery cart from the store across the street. Sometimes, we’d even walk a couple blocks to get Blizzards from DQ or candy and cheap toys from the local drug store.

It was fun.

We knew our parents were drinking alcohol. They didn’t call it “Mommy Juice.” When my brother or I asked our parents what they were drinking, they were honest with us.

“This is beer.”


“This is cognac.”

“This is scotch.”

“This is tequila.”

“This is wine.”

And you know what? My brother and I – we weren’t stupid. We knew what alcohol was. We saw a lot of alcoholics come and go from that bar.

So when one of us would ask, “Can I try?” and our parents said yes, they weren’t stupid either. Before you get all Trolly McTrollerson on me or my amazing parents, let me inform you that the Illinois State Liquor law does not have an age restriction for parents allowing their children alcohol in the safety of their own home. Which was the only place we were allowed to try our parents beverages.

My brother and I tried our fair share of Bud Light tastes and the occasional sip of cognac, and every time we tried something, we would spit it out with a resounding “YUCK.” Because gross. Our child palates weren’t down with alcohol, and we couldn’t understand how on God’s green earth our parents could consume such slop. Give me a 7up and grenadine any day.

Our parents talked to us about alcohol when we were very young. They were honest. And you know what else they were? They were hilarious. They drank. They made jokes. They made jokes about alcohol and parenthood and every other aspect of their lives. Because if you can’t laugh, what’s the point?

Even I, as a young pup, would make my fair share of alcohol jokes. When my sister, Deven, was away at college, she teasingly promised a nine-year old Chrissy that when I came to visit her, she would take me to a party and give me beer. I firmly stated to her, “I prefer cocktails.”

Of course, I was talking about kiddie cocktails, but everyone laughed. I got my sense of humor from my parents. Thank God.

Because right now, Responsibility.org is asking mom bloggers to “refresh their funny” and remove alcohol-related humor from their repertoire. You can watch this video that shows their preferred messaging.


While I’m not a mom blogger or even a mom, I’ve got a few things to say about this.

I respect the Talk Early campaign. I’m all for talking to kids about alcohol. Hands down, talk about it. But you know what? Alcohol is a legal substance for people over the age of 21 in the United States. It’s often younger if you live in another country. Parents aren’t going to stop drinking on behalf of their children, so why should they kill their senses of humor on behalf of those same children?

I’ve heard that parenthood changes you, but I sure as fuck hope that when I have tiny humans, I don’t lose the ability to make a quick joke about vodka. Because…Chrissy Water, as my friends call it here in the Chicago suburbs, isn’t going anywhere.

My parents talked to me about alcohol. They made jokes about alcohol. They still make jokes about alcohol. Shit, my dad and I drink to the forest fire (IT’S A JOKE, PEOPLE). And you know what? I didn’t go out and start drinking like a lush at 12 or think my parents were alcoholics or anything like that. And you know what? Most of my friends didn’t either. The kids who are drinking underage aren’t doing it because their parents made a joke about wine when they were babies or children or even teenagers. They’re doing it to rebel. They’re doing it because their friends are doing it. They’re doing it because they can.

Refresh the target not the punchline. Alcohol jokes are targeted at adults. Let's worry more about what the kids are doing than the parents, eh-

Me? I waited until I was a respectable freshman in college, sneaking booze the proper way. By getting a junior to buy my Boone’s Farm.

Responsibility wants to start a conversation. They’re even offering a fancy monetary prize to three BlogU15 bloggers who write about Refreshing Their Funny. This post is an entry into that contest, and no one paid me to say anything in this piece. Especially considering my whole disagreeing with them thing.

What about you guys? Do you believe parents should stop posting images and jokes with alcohol as the punch line? What are some of your favorite jokes and memes? When did you start drinking?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!

Shit I’m Really Glad My Mom DIDN’T Do

There are some things that I see and I think, Seriously?  I look back on my own childhood and thank the world that I had my mom doing things the way she did things.

Sometimes (not always, of course) I feel like my mom’s a little too hard on herself. Even though there are definitely times that my mom drives me or drove me up the wall…I think she did a fucking bad ass job of raising a couple of relatively normal human beings. So I’d like to take this opportunity to thank her for the shit she didn’t do. Because I am a better person for it.

Things My Mom Didn’t Do

Call alcoholic beverages “mommy juice”

Please. Please. Please for the love of God. Stop. Your children will eventually find out that you’re a lush. Calling it “mommy juice” doesn’t make it any better. It makes you sound silly. And drunk.

Now, I grew up surrounded by alcohol, without having alcoholic parents. My parents owned a bar. I knew alcoholics. I knew I didn’t want to be one. So I knew what booze was. I even knew when my parents were drinking it. Big fucking deal. Get over yourself. You aren’t the first parent to need a glass bottle of wine after a rough day. Call it what it is. Wine. Vodka. Beer. Whiskey. Name your poison…It’s okay, I promise. Your kid will thank you one day. Besides, I think I turned out okay.

Make alcohol seem taboo

I was allowed to taste everything, including, but not limited to wine and beer. I hated alcohol. It tasted gross. Children’s taste buds don’t actually LIKE booze (unless you’re drinking the super fruity stuff that tastes like candy. Don’t share that with the kids.) It’s the idea that it’s forbidden that makes so many kids experiment.

Sure I made jokes about drinking when I was a kid… When told I should drink MGD when I grew up, I told my older sister, Deven, that I would “drink Bud Light like my Daddy.” When she later told me that she would take me to a college party (at the age of 9) and get me a beer, I responded with, “I prefer cocktails.” In kindergarten, I drew a picture of a bar for what I wanted to be when I grew up. Instead of playing house or grocery store, we played bartender. But I’m almost 30 years old and I drink MAYBE once a week. So I think I’m alright on that front as well.

Give me a time out

Nope, I was never given a “time out” and asked about my feelings. Instead my parents would slap me on the ass and tell me that what I did was wrong. Seriously. Just like Pavolv’s pup, I knew when I did something bad and when I did something good. I was praised for good behavior, and taught not to be an asshole. I grew up with a healthy fear of punishment. Which is part of the reason I was such a Stepford child.

When I was an education major (twice), all of the books for child development were saying that you need to ask children about their feelings and why they did bad things. This pissed me off to no end. I even wrote a paper for Argumentative Writing in favor of corporal punishment for kids (when combined with a lot of affection.)  Mostly this pissed me off because I know kids who had that kind of parent…and I know kids like me who had parents who actually punished their kids, and you know what? We were the teenagers who didn’t end up drunk off our asses and naked in the middle of a public street…(Yes, this actually happened to someone).

Let Me Run Wild

Whether in a restaurant, the grocery store, or even a kid-friendly locale, my mother had us on strict orders to behave. We weren’t allowed to run around like assholes, we had to ask to leave the table at a restaurant (even to go see the lobster tank at Red Lobster), and we had to stay close to her in stores. In other words, we were well-behaved little assholes. Most of the time.

I remember being pulled out of a restaurant and getting spanked in the parking lot, after which we returned to the table, and I was a silently crying, but sitting and not yelling, little girl. Another time, I remember playing in someone’s basement for 20 minutes, and mom thought we were outside. When she couldn’t find us, we were no longer allowed to go to the pool with our babysitter that day.

Consequences. There were consequences to running wild. I see too many kids who dominate their parents, and the parents look frazzled and unsure of what to do…At which my point my mother would look at us and say, “I am the parent. You are the child. When you’re the parent, you can do what you want. Until then sit down and shut up.”

For the record, my dad’s pretty fucking awesome, too.

My first legal shot with my parents. (Isn't my mom short and adorable?)

My first legal shot with my parents. (Isn’t my mom short and adorable?)

What about you, Blog Friends? What are you glad your mom did or didn’t do? Will you do the same for your kids?

Hey! Did you know you can buy my book on Amazon? 37 women wrote about the struggle for perfection, and I'm one of 'em. Go check it out!