Hey ladies (always wanted to say that)!  If you are like me, once a month, for about five days, you turn into an emotional, angry, eating machine.  Also known as PMS.  If you are a woman who is lucky enough not to suffer from this, then God bless you and really, I don’t want to hear how your periods, and the days before, are no different for you than any other time of the month.  Especially, when I am in full PMS mode.  You know, bloated, tender swollen breasts and ready to kill or cry at a moments notice.  Well, because, you, my non-affected friend,  may be the subject of my wrath.  And that would make me feel bad…  In a few days, when I am thinking clearly again.  So, in case you haven’t guessed this blog will be all about PMS and the foods that can, temporarily at least, make things a LITTLE better.  And men, if you are reading this, good. You may get some insight into what we woman go through on a monthly basis.

When I am PMS I feel like I could eat the world. Literally.  Just season it with a little salt and I am ready.  My hunger has no bounds.  And what am I hungry for? Grease, salt and sugar.  Can’t get enough of the stuff.  In my youth, silly girl that I was, I used to try to fight and deny this hunger.  What happened? I became nearly homicidal and realized it was better to have those french fries than to lose three friends and ostracize my partner every month.  Now, I eat.  And eat a lot.  Days of nothing but fries, pizza and See’s chocolates.  Nights in front of the television weeping over a Lifetime “Woman in Peril” movie stuffing my face with grilled cheese sandwiches. Yes, sandwiches, the plurality is NOT a typo.  I can quickly move from weeping woman to angry bitch.  Then it is me ranting at the, fill in the blank, _______________ (television, car in front of me, cats, husband, moon…).  All the while I am ranting, I am shoving into my mouth potato chips and red vines.  Ugh!  No, I am not proud, just honest.  It is during these angry times that I feel like the Stay-Puff marshmallow man from Ghostbusters.  My bloated fingers struggling to open the bag of grated cheddar cheese, so I can make a HUGE quesadilla, while angrily mumbling about how my husband didn’t replace the empty toilet paper roll with a new one.    Then, just as quickly I am crying again.

What men and those lucky ones that don’t suffer from PMS may not know, is that PMS hurts.  No, not cramps like a period, but aches.  Your lower back aches, your boobs hurt and your jeans are painfully cutting you in half due to the extra 5-10 pounds of water you are carrying around.  Yes, you can take Midol (doesn’t do a thing for me).  Or a pain reliever, sure.  I drink.  To be more exact, I drink red wine.  What is strange is that alcohol affects me so much differently when I am in the midst of PMS.  One drink and I am buzzed.  Two and I am down right drunk.  But, if I stick with one, it helps with the aches and can take the edge of my horrible mood.  Bonus is that it goes wonderfully with the loaf of sourdough bread I am ripping apart, dipping into Boursin cheese and devouring.

Before I get a lot of advice and “help” from the professionals, let me tell you what I know.  I know that exercise helps. And I exercise regularly all month.  I know calcium and B vitamins help.  I take those all month as well.  I drink more than eight glasses of water every day.  And I still suffer.

What is a woman, and those that love her, to do?  I don’t know about you, but I have learned to accept those few days a month when I turn into an evil Sybil.  I am quick to apologize and to warn.  I now tell me husband, “I have PMS. I feel like Bloaty the Clown Woman and I REALLY can’t talk right now.”  Good husband that he is, he runs from the room.  I remind myself that however angry, sad and fat I feel now, I will feel better in a few days.  Of course, I also stopped trying to deny my hunger and now eat.  In fact, I am getting ready to get out of these jeans (I haven’t taken a deep breath since 8 this morning) and put on my baggiest sweats, eat saltines with mayonnaise until the pizza I ordered arrives and put on a Real Housewives marathon.