Now, cut to me fulfilling every stereotype of PMS that history has ever known. I am the epitome of short tempered and icky feeling, broken out like a teenage boy, millimeters from absolute meltdown at all times. I. am. a. disaster. I won't go too much into the I-can't-find-the-goddamn-yeast-packets-I-know-I-bought episode that plagued the hours before bed last night and led pretty quickly to sobbing and shouting and growling as I tore apart the kitchen...to no avail of course. It was ugly, I'll give you that much. I contemplated opening a bottle of pinot grigio with the full intent of downing it entirely, but in a moment of surprising wisdom I curled up fetal style in bed instead and eventually fell asleep.
My hormonally imbalanced alter-ego clearly had her heart set on making those soft pretzels last night. In an effort to appease her I got up early-early and drove to Kroger to re-purchase yeast packets. The dough is now rising, and with any luck at all I'll keep her manageable and get them finished in time to complete this week's care package before the post office closes for the day.