I love my body and I’m in touch with my beautiful lady-flower and all that. But the few days of the month that I’ve got PMS are hellacious. Yep, it really blows. I turn into a complete stereotype and it’s just embarrassing: chocolate cravings, tears, not fitting into my skinny jeans, the whole nine yards.
We all know the menfolk in our lives generally can’t relate to this drama. Lucky for me, my dad raised four daughters, so he knew to pick up chocolate ice cream and tampons at the grocery store and then disappear into the TV room until the storm blew over. But if the guy in your life is clueless, it’s time to read him your PMS Bill Of Rights—before he eats the last Haagen-Dazs bar and you read him the riot act instead. Keep reading »