The Curse

It generally happens at least once a month.  I get uncontrollable mood swings.  Ranging from annoyed to angry.   Irritated to irate.  I don't want to be like this.  But when it happens, I don't have any command over my emotions.  Biology makes me this way.  We as women are cursed.  And not just with our period.  Because that's not what I'm talking about.  I have this super power.  All women do actually.  Like Wonder Woman, except completely different.

You know when someone in your family does that thing?  That thing that is so fantastically annoying.  That thing you've told them a million times to stop doing.  But, they don't.  That's the trigger for my impeccable memory of every single time that particular person has done that particular thing.  Complete with a date and time stamp.  It's like I have hyperthymesia, but just for things that really piss me off.  Then my anger compounds with interest.  And that's when I become enraged and explode recounting every similar situation with some choice curse words thrown in.

I hate when I get like this.  But not as much as my family does.  But, come on, how hard is it to flush a goddam toilet?  That shit's gross!  And really?  Am I the only person capable of putting extra toilet paper in the bathrooms?  Look who saved your ass...again!  Wait, maybe I really am Wonder Woman!   Because there are several things in my house that only I'm capable of.  Like putting the cap back on the toothpaste, using the washing machine and keeping a mental inventory of what is in the house at any given moment and exactly where it is.  Because there's sure to be a pop quiz.  You know what's weird, is how preventable all of this is.  Oh, not on my part, but on my family's end.

Even though it's totally and completely not my fault for releasing this cataclysmic event, if I knew how to stop being this way, I would.  Except I'm pretty sure it involves getting a sex change.  Because every woman I know has this curse and does the same thing I do.  And every man I know is completely oblivious as to what he can do to prevent the woman in his life from erupting like this.  And while there is no known cure, cleaning the shaving stubble from the bathroom sink sure wouldn't hurt.  I may have mentioned this about a hundred times.  The last time I mentioned it was last month on a Tuesday when I made meatloaf and everyone left me to do the dishes.  Again.