The Periodic Table Has Nothing to Do with Changing Your Tampon

Since I can actually behave like a sober adult sometimes, I recently took a freelance job writing a textbook about the periodic table. I studied one hundred elements in great detail, including where they were discovered, how they were discovered, who discovered them, and who died in the process of discovery due to the then-unknown properties of radioactivity (spoiler alert: it was Marie Curie). Unfortunately, in the now-quite-likely-event that the government will hack into my computer to see if I’m a terrorist or not, I’m probably goin’ down for all of the Wikipedia searches on plutonium and hydrogen bombs.

About two-thirds of the way through the project, my husband started to act really weird and distant. I really didn’t put the two things together because, other than the obvious handful of people, who would get weirded out by the periodic table? Only, he did. And I couldn’t figure out why since (duh) it couldn’t have anything to do with the freakin’ periodic table.

When we finally had a nice heart-to-heart conversation about it (I don’t remember it that well, it took lots of alcohol to endure a conversation about how the periodic table was messing up my marriage), he admitted that he thought something fishy was going on when he saw that there was a file in the middle of my laptop screen called “Periodic Table.”

I will spare you the lengthy conversation, but the highlights reel looked a lot like this:

HIM: So, there’s this thing on your computer that says Periodic Table.

ME: Yup.

HIM: When were you gonna tell me about it?

ME: Never (sip).

HIM: You didn’t think that was something I needed to know about?

ME: Well, of course I thought you needed to know about it, but I assumed your seventh grade science teacher would have covered it. That makes it no longer my responsibility.

HIM: We didn’t talk about stuff like that in my school. I went to a very godly school.

ME: (sip) So if you didn’t talk about the Periodic Table in science class, what exactly did you cover in the class? (sip)

HIM: Well, we covered stuff like that in school, but they had to send home a note and then your parents had to agree to let you take the class.

ME: (siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip) Honey…

HIM: What?

ME: (sip) Do you know what the Periodic Table is?

HIM: Of course! I’m not an idiot!

ME: Let’s just pretend for a second that I don’t know what it is. Can you tell me about it?

HIM: It’s where you keep track of when you have your period, duh.

ME: Oh god (sip).

HIM: And the only reason you’d be keeping track of it on your computer is if you were trying to get pregnant!

ME: (siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip) See this glass right here? I can’t make it through most of the scientific explanations I have with you without one of these, and I can’t do that if I’m pregnant. Of course, if I somehow got pregnant at my age and had to start all over with diapers and breastfeeding and car seats, I wouldn’t be speaking to you anyway.

After a detailed discussion of what exactly I was doing with my very own periodic table (diagrams were involved), my husband breathed a wonderful sigh of relief and happily went back to playing with his toys. I drafted a quick letter to his alma mater’s school board for their epic science class fail.

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I Need Chin Hair And A Sweat Rag To Complete The Look

I’m pretty sure I’ve hit early menopause. I have absolutely no medical basis for that opinion AT ALL, but it’s fun to tell myself. However, all of the people around me who have endured actual menopause are a) laughing at me, b) assuring me that it is NOT menopause because I’m still speaking coherently, or c) telling me to be careful what I wish for. Here are my symptoms:

1) I’ve become a total bitch. Wait, that one’s not new, I just felt like I should point it out before I go any further. That symptom actually began sometime around 1987.

2) I can’t stay awake past 7:00pm without a case of Red Bull and an attendant who electrocutes me periodically.

3) Global warming be damned, there is no freakin’ way the rest of society is as hot as I am. I don’t mean good lookin’, I mean engulfed in flames under their skin. If this was all global warming-related, scientists would have fixed it by now.

4) I’m going bald in some places and sprouting odd hairs in others. Use your imagination.

5) I’ve developed weird cravings for hot tea and jalapenos and pickled broccoli. Have you ever tried pickling broccoli? It doesn’t work. There’s a weird threshold for how long broccoli can endure vinegar and heat, and if you miss the cutoff point, you have a bowl of pre-v0mited soup on your hands.

That’s it, those are my symptoms. Now, I have a degree in biology and I also have two kids so I know right away that half of you jumped to thinking, “Lorca’s pregnant!” I am not pregnant. Shut up, I already said I’m not pregnant! It’s menopause! Or a drinking problem! I don’t know which! (sorry, I warned you I wasn’t being very nice about this)

On the plus side, there are benefits to entering menopause and coming out the other side. First, it would justify the gray hair I’ve had for the past fifteen years. It would also explain the pools of sweat that mysteriously appear around me at odd times. I could finally stop buying feminine supplies in bulk, like I’m expecting Noah and the ark to pull around any minute and my hoarded stash of Always is the only thing that will hold back the flood waters.

Time for a poll!

Think carefully about your answers. Anyone who thinks I’m pregnant gets to appear on the Jerry Springer show with me when I accuse him or her of being the father. Lookin’ at you, Zorgron.