I have lived – in sin, cuz I’m real alternative sassy!- with several gentlemen associates. One, in particular, used to cock his head at me quizzically whenever I complained about things like the fact that he just left his dishes piled up in the sink, or never thought to take out the trash , or help with dinner. “Oh,” he’d say, a look of beatific epiphany descending over his face, “I get it! Whose time of the month is it? Is your little friend here?”

Of course, that is some infuriating douchebaggery right there! What guy doesn’t know the dangers of saying something like that to a woman? Though perhaps hormonally deluged, women are as rationally sound as men at ANY time of the month! We are able to set aside the constant, somewhat traumatic glut of estrogen that flows thickly through are brains and veins and be as quietly calm and logical as any man, right ladies?! Can I get an “Amen!”? He was very tall, so I remember standing on the coffee table to look into his beady little eye and explain to him that, whether the moon was howling in my hoo–hoo or not, it ALWAYS pissed me off when he expected me to come home after working all day and clean up after him as if he was a child, and that his actions made me feel disrespected and taken for granted. I felt like I was always trying to make his load lighter, because that’s the way I roll, but that he thought more of himself than he did of me, and that was the basic, irreconcilable difference between us. I felt that way each and every time, but sometimes, perhaps when the moon and my uterus were full, sometimes I wanted to suffocate him in his sleep, or sneak soap under his Fred Flintstone feet when he took a shower, or pepper his stupid, non-nausea causing Sunday breakfast omelet with broken glass and shaved doo doo. I ask you, does that have anything to do with my natural cycle? I think not! Of course not! Anyone would react the same way, right, gentle reader?

I bring this up only in light of a teensy, insignificant happening, one that I am inclined to ignore, but still gives me slight pause. Today I watched an episode of an anti-climactic, dull show called “Strange Days with Bob Saget.” That’s right, the Full House guy, and I’m not talking about uber–hottie John Stamos. It’s bad enough that I recorded it, to watch at my leisure, but here’s the thing…I almost cried a little. Just a little, and no tears actually formed, but still…

I checked the calendar. The full moon is right around the corner.

That doesn’t mean anything, right? People still take advantage of the perceived weaknesses of others whether I am on my period or not. Reasonable people can go nutso for seemingly no reason, but that doesn’t mean there really is no reason, right? And a good man can still be a good man, even if the differences really were irreconcilable; that’s just the way that life is. John Lennon, in his recently discovered last interview said, “All you need is love. I believe in it. It’s damn hard, but I believe in it absolutely.” I agree with him, even though I know that sometimes love doesn’t seem like near enough, and sometimes, no matter how much you love another person, things get away from you, they blind you, and suddenly you dream of serving up a deadly Sunday poopelet.

But getting a lump of any kind over Bob Saget? Even I gotta blame that on ol‘ Aunt Flo. Menstruation is a bitch.