Snatchmonster

Some days, I love being a chick. I am one of three in my house, the other two being feline. Living a boy house, much of my time is spent referring, cooking and disaster preparedness in the form duct tape and super glue. Usually I handle the chaos in good nature, but then my monthly gift arrives and the surly persona that resurrects itself is the Snatchmonster.

I feel like a hormonal nutjob riding an emotional rollercoaster while dealing with aching boobs, headaches and a seemingly unending craving for chocolate and anything deep-fried. My raving snatchitude usually reaches its peak when I arrive home from work. Four boys and an equally tired husband all bombard me with questions.

“What’s for dinner mom?”

“Can we have pizza?”

“Can I have a dollar? And a ride to-“

“YOU WANT WHAT?” I say through clenched teeth, seething in hormonal nuttiness. I’m starving, tired and I desperately need chocolate, followed by a bottle of wine.

“Honey – oh, shit, run kids!”

“What about the baby?”

“Leave him! He’s cute, he’ll survive.”

While the husband and kids scurry in fear and the baby is howling “What the hell is wrong with food lady?” He can’t say that, but that’s what the howl means. I forage through my freezer for sweet chocolate relief only to find that my teenager, I mean locust, has devoured it all. Emergency stash.

I check behind the liquor above the fridge. Dammit.

I gather my frightened fiendling and motor off to the store. I am on a MISSION!

Baby Fiend is now happy – he sees all the food which means at some point, he will be fed. I get my supplies and go back home. I down a glass of wine while I cook – the snatchiness is subsiding a little and although I still feel like a bloated meatball on a pms crusade, I know that there is chocolate waiting for me after dinner.

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