PMS Alter-Ego: Cruella deVille
November 22, 2010 § 2 Comments
Introducing…. Betty in the Lime Light
Call me Betty. Whether it be Crocker or Draper, I am the “future-wife, mother of his children” type. I cook, clean, wash and iron, all while wearing heels and a string of pearls, my hair in the perfect French twist. And if I am feeling a little naughty, I’ll ditch the dress and serve my Sicilian silver fox his home cooked meal in just the heels and pearls.
Three weeks out of every month I have rational interactions with my boyfriend, The Sicilian. I’m patient when he is on the phone, I don’t interrupt him when he is watching football and I calmly pick up the trail of towels and dirty socks and underwear he leaves behind. You’d think as a former athlete he could toss his dirty clothes with accuracy into the hamper. The fourth week of the month I become Cruella deVille. I am of prime baby making age, and my body has begun tricking my mind with a maternal thirst, I pine for babies like Cruella did for those dog-skin coats. Not only this, but the aggression is worse then when I was a spring chicken. I attack my would-be future husband over the dirty socks and incessant phone calls, hissing that he doesn’t even look at me anymore. “I’ve become a glorified maid!” I’ll shriek. And out of the clear blue sky I’ll claim he has no consideration for the fact that he is putting my life on hold until he mans up and makes an honest woman out of me by putting a bun in my the oven.
Although last Sunday was a football day, The Sicilian was up to being social and I invited my oldest and dearest friend, The Internet Bachelorette, over for dinner with big plans to make my own pasta sauce. I’ll admit I was battling with my crazy Cruella deVille PMS, which seems to have gotten more intense since my 26th birthday, partly because I am in a happy, healthy relationship and my body is telling me that The Sicilian has the most desirable gene pool for major league ball playing sons.
I literally had a knife poised to dice tomatoes when he received a phone call inviting us to dinner with the other producer from his last film. As business comes first more often then not in my house, plans were radically changed and I had to cancel dinner with The Internet Bachelorette. Cruella issued a melt down over the change of plans, and The Sicilian was sufficiently confused by my irrational reaction over the forced abandonment of my pasta sauce. This in turn escalated to me sobbing about the anger in my body and how emotional I am because he won’t let me have his babies yet. After leaving him stunned, pondering tomato sauce and unborn children, I took a long nap before getting in the shower and pulling myself together for our dinner engagement. Somehow a nap and hot shower can wash away Cruella and restore my sanity.
Amazingly enough The Sicilian is willing to put up with Cruella for the three weeks a month that I am patient and supportive. Maybe he feels it’s a fair trade given that thirty-six weeks out of the year he has a sexy girlfriend/maid service and twelve weeks he has an excuse to go to Vegas.