On behalf of women everywhere, I would like to officially apologize to men everywhere for PMS.

Whoever believes that the dirty little three-letter acronyme known as PMS is a myth, a farce or a fabrication, is in denial. Take it from me: PMS is REAL.

I am normally a well-balanced individual. I am capable of rational thought; I embrace objectivity and reason when faced with adversity; I encourage the calm and (can I say it again)RATIONAL exchange of ideas in a discussion. Until that is, the hormonal flux kicks in and I am reduced to an emotional, freakish, devil-woman from which there is no escape.

And there is absolutely NOTHING I can do to stop the torrent of madness... I've TRIED.

Picture, if you will, Ginner Girl and the Sweet Paul at home Sunday morning. The sun comes up on this day, like any other - yet everything is different...

Ginner Girl wakes feeling slightly "off," but chalks it up to the Hellcat waking her up throughout the night with his incessant closet door bongo solo (a story for another entry), and goes about the morning.

And then it happens: somewhere between the first cup of coffe and the exchange of sections of the newspaper, I felt myself getting angry and hateful.

I looked across the table at the man I love more than anything and thought, "We've been up for ten minutes and we NEED to clean the house and I'm the ONLY one that seems to notice the mess and HOW can he sit there and not SEE that the housework needs doing and WHY do I always have to nag him to do things and WHAT is so interesting in the Sports section anyway and WHEN is he going to notice I'm staring at him...."

And it all went downhill from there.

It was like I was standing outside myself, seeing my actions as a third-party observer. I knew everything that was happening was a product of my own diseased mind, but I couldn't stop it. I felt at the time that I was being irrational and completely out of character, but there was nothing I could do. Psycho Ginner was in charge and Ginner Girl was powerless.

"RUN!!!" I wanted to yell at Paul. "Save yourself!!"

Turns out however, that Paul didn't need to be told. Having a finely developed sense of self-preservation, he hi-tailed it the Hell out of my way and hid (with the cat, bless him) in our bedroom until it was over. Incidentally, that bedroom has never been so clean...

After I raged through the house cleaning, scrubbing, mumbling obscenities to myself, scrubbing some more, bawling because I felt bad about freaking on Paul, disinfected and scrubbed even MORE, it finally subsided.

My hormones calmed down and the feeling of being out of control - the complete and utter realization that I was powerless to reign in a psychosis OF MY OWN MAKING - was replaced by a wave of culpability unparalelled.

When I finally calmed down completely I apologized to Paul. Repeatedly. And often.

I was awed by the Force that took over my body and made me say and do things that normally, I would never do. I am a good Ginner, DAMMIT!

In the end, all I can do is take this as a lesson. Paul and I already have a game plan for next month: when I go wonky, he's just going to look me straight in the face, point a crooked index finger at me and say, "Hey! Don't be a Bitch."

We think that should shock some sense into me, because Paul doesn't throw around the "B" word lightly.

It'll either cure me or kill him... Stay tuned..

Mwa ha ha ha haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!!!!