Tomorrow is Friday. All day!

I must confess that sometimes (often) I can be a bit of a dingbat (fucktard) and do slightly ridiculous (utterly moronic) things (things).
Case in point: every so often I think "oh, my breasts are really tender" and I punch holes in my drywall and I start crying when one of the little tiny animals made out of pipe cleaners that my coworker has perched on the divide betwixt my desk and hers topples over, and things come out of my mouth that surprise me.
Like last night: when Michael said he might go for a run with a couple of friends of ours on Saturday morning and I promptly retorted "well, I guess maybe I'll see you on Sunday then" and proceeded to extol the vast complexity that is my social schedule to him which was basically a thinly veiled way of saying "men want to be me and women want to be with me" or something to that effect.
And as every word came out of my pursed little (big) mouth I thought "this isn't want I mean to say" and, as I regaled him with tales of my astounding popularity and overall desirability I thought further "why am I saying any of this?".
Today, chatting with Michael and making references to whipping cream and its uses both in and out of the kitchen I mentioned that I got my period and he said, "Oh! I was meaning to ask you about that. You were saying some pretty weird things yesterday and I was wondering if you were PMSing".
The good thing about his observation is that, a few years ago he would not have noticed this nuance in my personality because I was a stark raving bitch most of the time. Yes, marathoning (and getting older) works wonders. I'm quite confident that I would have killed someone by now if I hadn't have taken up running in a big way. Hopefully it would have been Ann Coulter. Or Paris Hilton. Wait. Have you ever seen both of them in the same room at the same time?
The bad thing about his observation is that he picked up that I had PMS before I did. I mean really. It's been 20 years and still every month it's like "Hey! What's this, then?"
My period is like this cat we had when I lived at home called Shredder. Every damn night my mom would let Blackie - our German Shepard/Husky - in so he could sleep in the kitchen. This was a large dog, probably roughly 80lbs and scary enough that the meter reader would lean on his horn until my mom remanded the dog before he would get out and complete his duties. Nevertheless, every night Shredder, this lanky, wiry cat, would linger by the entrance from the mudroom to the kitchen, just waiting for Blackie to barge in and once Blackie crossed the threshold Shredder would dart out and bat Blackie about the face with his paws (claws in) and Blackie would be startled and taken aback and then Shredder would do an about face and be gone.
Seriously.
80lb dog and tiny cat.
Almost nightly.
And I would think, "Blackie. Why? He did it two nights ago and he's going to do it again. Prepare yourself, man. Be ready for the onslaught."
Nope. Utter and sheer surprise, every time.
The moral of the this story is that I miss the way I was able to viciously pit my pets against one another for my affection.