One of the joys of being a female is the tendency to be irrational and emotional at certain times of the month. I was thoroughly female last night.

First, I started developing a migraine in the afternoon, so I called-in that I couldn't make it to church and then sat there feeling guilty while I watched trash TV instead. Then, Keeping Up With the Kardashians made me cry, which made me feel even worse about myself because honestly, I just do not have the ability to control the water works and it's really embarrassing to have my husband walk in the room and catch me sobbing over a ridiculous reality show.

Then, I started talking to Bryan about my birthday. I'm a self-admitted spoiled brat about birthday cakes- not that they have to be from some expensive bakery or anything- but on that one day of the year, I want only one type of cake, and if I don't get it, I get really pissy: white cake with butter cream frosting and strawberry filling from a grocery store bakery. With pink roses. And this year, since I'm dieting and abstaining from most desserts in general, I plan to enjoy the heck out of that birthday cake, so it's even more important than usual.

Well, when we started talking about my birthday, my husband pulled his usual act of pretending not to know when my birthday is and what kind of cake I like. Usually, I laugh it off because I know he's kidding and he always comes through for me and makes holidays special, but because I was being irrational and emotional, I stormed into the office and called the grocery store and ordered my own darn cake. Twenty days early.

Then, I marched into the living room and announced "You can pick up my cake on my birthday any time after noon at Crest." Bryan got really mad that I ordered my own cake and said it was silly for me to expect him to remember exactly what kind I like when he can just ask me every year. "Do you even know what kind of cake I like?" he asked. "Yes!" I said. "Strawberry cake with strawberry cream cheese frosting!" "No!" he said, "I like white cake with strawberry frosting but you get it wrong every year and I just don't say anything!" And cue the water works.

When I finally stopped crying, after many, many hugs and assurances from Bryan that he appreciates the time and energy I put into making holidays and birthday parties and dinner parties special, I realized that I was being absolutely ridiculous. So, I made myself a nice bowl of whole wheat pasta and opened a bottle of champagne. Ladies and gentleman, I found the cure for PMS: a nice, cold glass of Brut champagne. And we all thought it was just for celebrating.