We feel like we are always starting every blog with something about our PMS; “During one particularly bad PMS binge, we ate all the contents of our fridge in 20 minutes” or “Last week, when PMS struck, we almost smacked our doorman for having the nerve to say hello to us! Can’t he see we want privacy!?” or “F*ck our organic raw diet, someone give us 7 bagels and a pile of tofu creme cheese – stat!!”
Let’s face it, life is sort of one particularly insane PMS ride. We are either ecstatic and impassioned – dancing on the ceiling at the most fabulous party in the world, or boo-hoo driven and anxiety ridden. Everything in betwixt is just filler.
That said, our Fiance (who hereto shall be known as the SAINT, for reasons you’ll understand if you are a woman and read the rest of this story) knew we were having a PMS moment on Friday evening and called on the way home from work and said “Baby, I know you are feeling icky. What can I get you from the store?” and I screamed “OWWW.. I want cookies!!!”
Saint said; “Are you sure baby? You don’t usually eat sugar or cookies or sweets, and when you do, you complain and feel horrible.” I screamed; “Don’t tell me what my body needs!! I want COOKIES and I want them in BULK and I want them NOW. And I want them VEGAN and gluten free, with no sugar or any icky ingredients!” Saint hustled through the isles at the Health Food store, “Honey, I’ll get you whatever you want. I see some raw, organic vegan truffles here. Do you want them?” I howled at the injustice; “NO! They are $18 and will be gone in seconds! I want something to savor. I don’t know what I want!!” The Saint trudged on through isles and isles; reading me (at my demand) the back of the box of nearly every cookie and sweet treat box he came across.
Finally he came across a cookie with a halo. A cookie so pure, so good for you, so HEALTHY, it had to taste like shit. Or did it? He read the ingredients of NANA’s COOKIES: “This one sounds good, Angel. It’s fruit juice sweetened, totally vegan, has no refined sugars, dairy, hydrogenated oils, cholesterol, bad fats, trans fats, GMO’s, cane, or beet products.” Before he could finish I warbled (too tired at that point to scream, someone fetch me my slippers!) “YES, I want those. Lot’s of them. And three Kombuchas. And 6 organic apples. And organic kim-chee. And …” (the list went on, I won’t bore you with my household minutia).
The Saint trudged in, from a long day Art Directing websites for the rich and famous, carrying bags upon bags of overpriced food. Before he could even remove his Chapeau he was inundated by overexcited barks and meows from our ninja squad of rescued animals. I yelped, prostrate, on the bed; “HONEY, my COOKIES. Please.” The please came out like a whisper, a final plea before being sacrificed to the goddess of lunar rose. Saint Fiance rushed in, bearing a big fat woman-sized “Coconut Chip” cookie for me. I threw my pink chenille robe wearing self upon the treats and tore into the first cookie like a man at sea hits a whorehouse.
HEAVEN. I never knew being *so* very good and clean could taste so naughty.
“My love, where did you find these unparalleled snacks?!! These can’t be good for you!!”
The Saint replied (now trained to my ingredient reading eye) “Yes baby, they are totally great for you! Read the ingredient’s again. Just enjoy and relax. Do you want a back rub?”
I looked at him, one tear rolling down behind my Prada glasses, “Yes, please.”
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