My own brand of hormone therapy

I just realized I’ve given my refrigerator a PMS shelf. I think eggs are supposed to go there, but instead I’ve stocked it with fresh mozzarella cheese that I sprinkle salt on, extra sharp cheddar, peanut butter cups, and sea-salt caramel chocolate.

If Fridgidaire ever figures this out, they’ll probably market it and make the shelf pink with sparkles and shit on it. I can see it now — it’ll be labeled “mommy’s special shelf” or some such nonsense. Or, OR… They’ll label it “veggies” and the commercial will show a knowing mom winking at the camera as she takes out her secret stash of hormonal adjustment, because “Ha ha, kids never want the veggies, amirite, moms?! Stereotypes are fun!”

For fuck’s sake, y’all… That could HAPPEN! Oh, wait… No, it couldn’t. We can’t acknowledge menstruation, except in ads for feminine care. And those are totally reality-based, what with the devil-may-care white pants and joyous frolicking through fields.

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