Period Party!

I thought I would celebrate my first post with a period party. She showed up so late as usual. It only seemed fitting to blast off the advice giving blog while I'm suffering from depression, low self esteem, uncontrollable crying and of course murderous mood swings to boot. I don't know about you but for my period parties, I like to celebrate with a handful of chocolate bars and a big bottle of NyQuil. To me, the chocolate says "your classic and timeless" and the NyQuil says "you want to be knocked out like a college kid after a beer pong party but without the hangover." SCORE.

I hate getting ready to go out especially on my period. I had to take my 11 year old to the eye doctor today. This afternoon, getting ready was not like any other day. Its rag day which means my hair is to frizzy, to flat, to gray, to poofy. Getting ready went omething like this:

I'm standing in the bathroom mirror just staring at myself. I whine "it-won't-do-what-i-want-it-to-dooooooooooo. I-don't-want-to-go-ouuuuuuuuut. OH MY GOD I HATE MY LIFE!"

"What?" The husband says from the other side of the door.

 "Nothing" I mumble and throw my greasy hair up. Hey maybe the doctor will take pity on me and my gross hair. Maybe he'll think I'm some poor hillbilly and give me a good discount. Maybe I should throw on a holy shirt. No, I cant. I'll probably run into clients. Balls.

 I need to shave but I think I can get away with one more day. Its just stubble. No ones going to be feeling on my legs. We are golden on the leg department. I come out of the bathroom. I'm looking for a particular shirt. I can't find this particular shirt. "Eff my life!" I scream!

My husband doesn't even look up from his tablet.

"All I want is my freaking shirt. MY going out shirt. The shirt I love. I wear it all the time. Of COURSE, because I want it right now, I cant find. Why does everyone always have their shit but me? What are you all doing with my stuff? Are you wearing it? Eating it?" I'm throwing covers off the bed. I'm tossing pillows. I'm moving clothes from one draw to the other. I'm shoving stuff around in the closet. I flop onto the bed face down. I say into the bed "Why does my life have to be so harrrrrrrrrrd? I just want my shirrrrrrt. I love my shirrrrrrrt. Spanky, (thats what we're going to call the hubby) all I want in my life is to find my shirt. And a theme song. I just want you to sing a theme song for me every time I walk into a room. Is that so much to ask?! I just want my own theme song!"

He never looks up from his tablet.

Later when I get back from my trip to the eye doctor (more about that later), I walk over to where he is building a fire pit (more on that later too) and he breaks out into my theme song. "Oh Missy your so fine, your so fine you blow my mind hey MISSY! HEY! HEY! Hey Missy!"

I laugh and look down at my feet. My freaking toes. I didn't repaint them and forgot to clip them. It looks like a pterodactyl foot is literally clawing its way out of my sandal. FML.

Its so easy to be a freaking dude.

So send me your letters. Send them to me anonymously if you want to. We're all friends here. Some of you I probably like more than others but that's okay too. We cant all be perfect.

You know you want my advice. I'll tell you what to do when your bestfriend acts a foot at your wedding. I'll tell you what to do when your kids want 5 different meals at dinner. I'll even tell you what to do about that damn stain on your favorite shirt.  Email it to melissadmullins@gmail.com.