Can someone please explain to me the evolutionary purpose of PMS?

I understand childbirth pain and cramps from a biological perspective, even if I fail to appreciate the latter on a personal level. But what, oh what, could be the point of making me sad and cranky and paranoid and generally down in the dumps on a monthly basis? I mean there has to be some hormonal justification for this, right?

Here’s the lemonade version of my weekend:

• Jazz being cancelled allowed Rudi and me to have a lovely Friday dinner out with Michael and Julia at a British pub we’ve been meaning to try for more than a year.
• My Saturday bike ride not happening meant that my knee did not scream with pain for the whole day. And biking to and from the ball game (which I wouldn’t have been able to do with the gimpy knee) was pleasant and quick and allowed us to miss the Red Line delays and the crowds and to stop by the World War II Memorial on the 65th anniversary of D Day on a beautiful moonlit night.
• The Mets being blown out of the water at the one game in the series we saw in person meant the Nats won a game in front of a large crowd. And it gave John Lannan the first complete game of his career.
• Not successfully finding a vegetarian-friendly dinner at the ballpark (okay, I could have had pizza, but that’s really just overpriced cardboard and there’s no shiny way of rethinking it) meant that I found a $2 juice made with real fruit (it had strawberry bits in it!) at the coffee stand just above our seats. Cheap deals (particularly for something healthy) are hard to come by at the ballpark.
• Going back to bed this morning instead of getting dressed and heading to the farmers’ market might have resulted in us missing the milk supply and shelling peas, but it netted me three more hours of sleep, which I clearly needed.
• A lazy but enjoyable evening of Tony’s watching (even with its abysmal sound and video work) submarined my plan to make strawberry shortcake but it meant I had only half the dishes to wash and that we had strawberry-laden ice cream sundaes instead.

Okay, okay. I admit that Pollyanna may have had something here. I do feel better thinking about the positives that came out of this weekend rather than the things that didn’t end up working out. Normally I can do this automatically, but, as I wrote above, PMS makes me a little crazier than normal.

Which brings us back to my original question: What’s the point for PMS? Anyone?

There is just not enough time to bake all the rhubarb and/or strawberry sweets I want to make before their seasons run out on me.

Maybe if everyone I knew also baked some and then we had a big baked good party…

Yes, I know that seems unlikely…

Tomorrow should I make strawberry-rhubarb and thyme shortcakes or rhubarb cupcakes or strawberry mascarpone cream puffs or … ?

Julia and I did another one of our marathon bike rides this morning, getting in 30 miles or so on a glorious day. The sun shone brightly, the shade was cool and lush, and the breeze wafted the scent of honeysuckle through the 70-degree air. It was a gorgeous way to spend several hours.

Unfortunately, my right knee does not seem to agree with my assessment. It is under the impression that we had a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. It has decided it does not like long bike rides. Actually, at the moment, it doesn’t like much of anything.

Rudi suspects my problem is Illiotibial Band Syndrome (ITBS), which is common for people who bike and run. It’s a sign of not keeping my toes and knees in alignment when I bike and of weak hip muscles, so I will have to work on both of those things (and buy something called a foam roller to loosen the tissue).

In the meantime, I’m going to go take some more ibuprofen and curl up with my ice pack.

I’m back in D.C. after a nice, relaxing weekend up in Connecticut with the family.

I spent much of the weekend, sitting in the sun with pink drinks. I knit and read and talked with my folks and Gramma. I sometimes forget how much I enjoy the sun. And I ate chocolate and raspberries (together!), although that part wasn’t until evening.

Dad and I played Scrabble. Dad generously allowed me to get away with playing “zoot,” which, it turns out, cannot be separated from “suit” and still be considered a word (slang and proper names — even of Muppets — not being allowed).

I spent the last two mornings curled up on Gramma’s couch, just hanging out in my pj’s. Unfortunately, of the three mornings I was there, today was really the first one where I was able to head downstairs at a reasonable hour with time to relax.

Mum calmly picked up pieces, as I, early in the morning, frantically rushed around with a nearly finished elephant (he’s a future blog post), half-eaten breakfast, and unwrapped presents trying not to be late for Karen’s baby shower. (Unfortunately, my own doubts about the computer-generated directions and my faith in an elderly man’s “shortcut” to the restaurant helped to thwart that goal.) Mum is at her best in a crisis, and my difficulty with deadlines and timeframes means I nearly always bring some unnecessarily frazzled moments careening onto her doorstep. She just steps into the fray and sorts things out, meaning I leave better prepared than I otherwise would.

Stopping to shop on my way back from the baby shower allowed me to miss the crazy storms that whirled through the region Sunday afternoon. The bikers parked under overpasses ought to have clued me in to the weather ahead of us, but it wasn’t until I encountered the traffic congestion caused by verges strewn with hail, streets covered with downed greenery, and the standing foot-deep puddles on the roadway that I realized what I’d just barely missed.

After a lovely barbecued lunch this afternoon, my new sneakers, cds, and I arrived at BWI, where Rudi had thoughtfully driven to pick me up. It was a great weekend. I was glad to be able to visit and I’m happy now to be home (particularly since I know the next visit is next month).

Hey, all! I’m up in Connecticut for a baby shower and a visit with the family. I’ll be back tomorrow evening.

Happy Memorial Day!

Dear soe,

Pause the next time you think to yourself, “Wow, that garbage stinks. I should really take it out.”

It’s true; you eat a lot of fresh vegetables and you don’t have a compost bin or a garbage disposal. So, it could be your trash.

But is it possible it’s not the garbage at all? Could you be overlooking something crucial? Could it be staring you in the face?

Could it be that asparagus should, in fact, be refrigerated, even if it is standing in a cup of water? Could that stench possibly suggest that your vegetables are rotting on top of the fridge?

Think about it for a second and I think you’ll agree you might have missed something important…

Honestly… you’ll thank me.

Truly,
soe