An Open Letter

Dear PMS,

I hate you. For the past few nights I have been tossing and turning, incapable of any firm grasp on sleep. Usually my sleep is reminiscent of the dead, dead bed hogs, sure, but still - THE DEAD. Because of you and this ridiculous San Francisco heat wave, I lay in bed doing my best impression of a hot flashed fifty-five year old menopausal women while thoughts of who to draft in my fantasy football leagues bounce around in my head. Seemingly, the boy part and the girl parts of me have thrown down the gauntlet to battle. And since there will be no future use of my female parts due to fact that having another kid will inevitably make me a homeless insane drunkard, I would like to state with the most emphatic of all voices - leave me the fuck alone. I served my time through years of horrible cramps, moodiness, acne and that one time there was an unfortunate leak in high school pointed out to me by a girl in the presence of what seemed to be 1,000 boys. So yeah, cut me a break. Leave me and my mostly male mind alone. There are two fantasy drafts next week that need absolute focus. I can’t be drafting players with this girl brain of psychosis. For all I know, I will end up drafting Ochocinco because he is cute and was on the Dancing with the Stars. Shudder.

Yours truly,

Cassie McCall

Murphy's Law - The Pregnancy Test

Let it be know that after a person takes a pregnancy with a negative result, that person will finally get their period usually within twenty-four hours. There will be massive crippling cramps just to punctuate the fact that you actually begged for this. You might cry.

The Scare and The Agony

Dear Reader, I will not lie. This past week, I thought maybe I could be pregnant. Luckily, yesterday the curse arrived. And by curse I mean a mind-altering barrage of crampiness that requires steady dosing of Advil and quiet whimpering. I see now that the constant breast pain, the bloating, the headaches did not mean pregnant but rather PMS to the 18th power. Holy Jesus. Also, before discovering I was not knocked up (thank you First Response Pregnancy Test), I was pretty pissed off at my egg. Usually before my egg ovulates, it receives the following instructions, "Okay, listen up here missy, you are not to make any contact with those squiggly godforsaken hooligans you may meet on your journey. First, I have only been drinking again for four months, and that is too short a time. Second, do you know how expensive infant care is? Third, spring is here, meaning sun, meaning the Park Chalet, and if I have to be there not drinking beer while everyone else is well just say I will not be happy. I will be angry. Very angry. So stick to your guns and do not under any circumstance listen to the sweet words of any spermatozoa. They have nothing good for you. NOTHING." So, imagine my dismay that my ova perhaps did not listen to my instructions. But happily, I am without child but under attack in the form of gut twisting agony. I fucking hate my period. But I do love vodka. So I guess I can suffer for my art.

J.Crew, Why you hating?

For Christmas I asked my mother to buy me some pant from J.Crew, trouser style corduroy pants to be exact. Surprisingly, instead of saying "Oh my God Cassie, I'm not paying that much money for a pair of pants", she bought them. They are very lovely except for one glaring design flaw. Those of you not in the know (a/k/a equipped with penises), trouser style is code for a wide leg (see example). So that basically with every step I take, the fabric comes into contact creating the tell tale corduroy swoosh. I walk, swoosh sounds. Most of the time when one is of an even keel mind this is no biggie, but quite another when you just got your "friend" and am so bloated you are considering entry in the Macy's Day Thanksgiving Parade. In order to combat this, I have been walking around the office with a stride that has my legs jetting out at 45 degree angles. Now I don't know what is worse - having someone think my thighs are rubbing together about to start a three alarm blaze or the sight of me rounding the corner as if I had just pooped my pants? Thoughts.