A young priest, an old priest, and a tub of ice cream

By: LOUISE ESOLA - Staff Writer | Friday, October 7, 2005 10:59 PM PDT ∞

Now that Halloween is right around the corner, many of us might find ourselves searching for a good haunted house to visit. Something happens to all of us when candy corn goes on sale.

We go gaga for a good spook.

We tend to rent heart-pumping scary movies, such as "Friday the 13th," with hockey-mask-sporting Jason Voorhees, and "Halloween," with knife-happy Michael Myers, and perhaps "Showgirls," starring Elizabeth Berkley.

We seem to enjoy having the heebie-jeebies and the jeepers creepers this time of year.

Agree?

Well, I am here to tell you that if you live with a woman, you may not have to venture past your backyard, bedroom or broom closet. You don't have to carve a pumpkin. You don't need a full moon. You don't even have to buy candy.

Actually, it doesn't even have to be Halloween season.

All you have to do, quite frankly, is just wait until day 20 of her monthly menstrual cycle.

Here, gentlemen, I am talking about premenstrual syndrome, which in its acronym form is referred to simply as PMS. Comedians and others have dubbed it Psychotic Mood Shift, Provide Me with Sweets, Pardon My Sobbing or Pack My Stuff.

All references, in my opinion and experiences, are correct.

For all of you who don't recall much from your high school sex education course, PMS is that "time o' the month" when women seem to crawl out of all reason. (Here, I am not talking about the 1980s fashion blunders that paired together high heels and leg warmers.)

We cry over everything, even spilled milk. Literally. Then we get mad and blame others for the milk that spilled on the floor. We want to eat anything that has a minimum of 30 grams of fat per spoonful. Then we get mad at the person who invented the ice cream, because now we think we are fat.

It wasn't you, dear husbands and housemates, who spilled the milk or came up with a fabulous recipe for Rocky Road, but if you're the only one standing there, watch out.

You are guilty by just standing there and inquiring, "What's wrong, sweetheart?"

That's when it seems that our eyes turn to the color of midnight, our heads begin spinning, and we spew green vomit and profanities.

Scary, isn't it?

I can't speak for all women, but I know the Blair Witch and Linda Blair in "The Exorcist" combined got nothing on me. Ladies, if you've ever gotten mad at the coffee maker for not brewing fast enough, I am sure you can relate.

So, what, scientifically speaking, is going on here? I mean, medically. Chemically.

Don't ask me?! Do I look like a &*^?&%$# scientist?! (BOO! Scared ya, didn't I?)

Actually, 40 percent of women suffer from PMS, according to the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists. You read that? We, as in women, are suffering.

But what about men? Don't men suffer?

I know Donkey Kong, my beloved husband who will definitely never want his name in my column after this is printed, suffers. He is still trying to figure out why we now need to purchase a new coffee maker. And the guy at the grocery store, the one who didn't double bag the heavy stuff as I requested, well, I am sure he suffers.

So to all of you gentlemen who live with a female of child-bearing age, you know you can enjoy the thrills of a Halloween spookfest without even leaving your home. Just grab a crucifix, some garlic, a young priest and an old priest. Just don't forget to grab a half-gallon tub of ice cream on your way home from work. Grab two of them.

And remember, whatever flavor you get, I am sure it will be the wrong kind.

Staff writer Louise Esola covers Oceanside schools. She can be reached at lesola@nctimes.com.