Sunday, September 23, 2007

When Estrogen Attacks

The past few days, I've been a little sensitive to things that normally wouldn't faze me in the least. This has some of my friends (those of the male persuasion), a little perplexed.

I was discussing this with Mal last night (in the course of apologizing for taking his playfulness completely wrong...*sigh*) and he said that he'd noticed that all the women in his life got "like this" now and then. He gently suggested that hormones might be to blame.

I think he could be right. I also think he has no idea what he's saying (and I make that statement with love). No man really does.

I thought I would help them out.

"When Estrogren Attacks"

A fortress exists inside my body - full of tiny gremlins armed to the teeth. For days on end, they marshall their forces behind their walls, posting sentries, climbing watchtowers, and diligently sending reports to their command post. Off-duty gremlins polish barbed armor, load bazookas, and studiously scour the dictionary for an arsenal of offensive words effective in ripping the enemy's armor to shreds.

Adrenaline is a low-grade, constant fever in the gremlins' blood as they wait for the inevitable.

Once a month, it happens. One tiny gremlin, clinging to a watchtower, sees it coming and screams the alarm.

Estrogen is on the move.

Commanding officers bark orders and entire squadrons of gremlins gnash their teeth, grip their semi-automatics, their spears, and their dictionaries, and pour out of their fortress to engage in noble battle.

With the gremlins running rampant through my body, I wake in the morning thinking that yes, today is the day I will kill someone.

"Who" I will kill doesn't seem to matter. I'm not choosy. Just breathing my air without permission is reason enough.

I am violently angry with inanimate objects when the gremlins have control. I kick my refrigerator for it's lack of non-healthy breakfast items. I nearly wrench the back door off its frame for having the temerity to "stick" when I want it open. I take one look at my hair in the mirror and decide to end the life of my hair dryer by dunking it in the bathtub.

This seems a reasonable plan.

So does eating peanutbutter straight from the jar.

With the gremlins in control of my body, I cry over toothpaste commercials, smash my lying, I-have-a-death-wish scale to pieces with my hubby's sledgehammer, and invite telemarketers to contort their bodies into positions that are technically impossible to achieve.

When I have errands to run, I muscle my '94 Dodge minivan into position on the highway and dare other drivers to get in my way. Cut me off today and I'll run you into a tree. Tailgate me and I'll slam on my brakes and let you buy me the new vehicle of my dreams.

On gremlin-battle day, I am patently unable to bypass a Starbucks. I whip through the drive-through and order the largest dose of sugared caffeine money will buy.

The gremlins welcome the caffeine as it hones their warrior instincts.

I enter the grocery store, glaring at those wise enough to give me a wide berth and plotting the demise of those who don't.

Lingering in the middle of an aisle with your half-packed shopping cart, carefully perusing the 43 flavors of Doritos, oblivious to those of us who want to get to the Sun Chips? Prepare to be rammed.

Standing between me and the chicken tenders? I hope you have health insurance.

And don't even get me started on the consequences of cutting in front of me at the check out. Nick Nolte will look like Miss America compared to you when I'm finished.

Those who have to work with me on gremlin day can read the attitude in my face.

Few are still foolish enough to try to adjust it.

I have no patience for stupid questions, condescending morons, or, truth be told, people in general. I find myself mentally advocating population control, Smith & Wesson style.

Put me on hold on gremlin day and I will physically crawl through the phone line and down your throat.

Sass me on gremlin day and the gremlins whip out their dictionaries and line up a veritable barrage of insults guaranteed to flush out the weak and make them cry.

Touch me on gremlin day and hope that you either a) don't bruise easily or b) are wearing appropriate protective gear like jock-straps or chain-metal armor.

If I love you, the gremlins are conflicted and send mixed messages to my brain. Should I yell at you? Stay away from you? Fall into your arms and cry?

The gremlins cannot tolerate multiple battle commands and so the various messages morph into one and I become a woman who gets angry over nothing, keeps my distance though you can see I need you, and then falls into your arms to cry only to yell at you when you comfort me with words instead of a pint of Moose Tracks Ice Cream.


I hope that clears things up.


  1. LMAO!!!

    This is the funniest thing I've read in a long time!

    Every man should read this.

    Gremlins...*snorts with laughter*

  2. :D You really should send that in somewhere.



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