There is something massively unfair in the fact that I am one month and some change away from being officially in menopause, and I’m still getting PMS. Breakouts, a craving for sugar, lowered pain tolerance, swelling, heightened irritation, the works.

And I know why—my encysted ovaries are occasionally popping off a cysted egg, which degenerates and creates the hormones and other chemicals that triggers the PMS, thank you SO VERY MUCH PCOS. I’m just grateful that my uterus is staying out of this.

So I warned Lyndon that I probably won’t be in the best of moods for the next day or so and that I’d stay out of his way, and if I did get snappish it wasn’t him, it was me. Of course, this is also CATWATCH 2023: Day Four and J.J. not only pooped all by himself on his bedding, he pooped and peed on the big cat bed in the library. This required me to toss the bed in the yard and hose it down (I think I may be able to put it in the washing machine but it’ll require something to balance it during the spin cycle), wipe down and disinfect the floor, then haul the Elderly Gentleman into the bathroom for a full-on sink bath where I could wash the sticky poop out of his tail and undercarriage.

Considering that I was scared he wouldn’t be able to poop on his own anymore, I’m just grateful that he’s still able to do it and I don’t have to give him any enemas for the foreseeable future (although the medical-grade ones did arrive today). If we can just get him to poop on the pee pads or in the litter box, my life will be complete.

And now, if you’ll excuse me I need a shower and a large rum and coke.