The Apartment
an emily blunt rant

I had just settled into my swank, new, Beverly Hills apartment; hardwood floors, crown molding, French doors. A steal at 1000.00 a month (gas and water included—natch).

I began to nest upon my Ikea ergo-dynamic designed-faux leather-politically correct-Feng Shui couch when suddenly and without warning my inner hormonal clock clicks into overdrive! The female munchies, the PMS snackfest, the ovarian orgy of food cravings were rearing their ugly head.

Oh how I tried to resist. I grabbed my new Shape© magazine hoping to guilt myself into dietetic bliss.

But then I heard them…a call, nay, a bellow, from the kitchen area…it was the Markham cherries. Sweet and tart. Tangy and robust. They began an opera of cries from my cupboard. They called my name - low at first then more desperate as I perused the workout pages of the month, feverishly trying to ignore them - imagining my slender thighs in that smart DKNY ensemble if I resisted...

They called louder and more insistent.

I rationalized, "Well, they are low in fat and high in citric acid. So what if they swim in a sauce of pure liquid sugar? Besides every girl knows premenstrual food fixes don't count towards your monthly caloric intake! Of course I would have to eat the entire jar - as they are so susceptible to spoilage…"

Before I knew it, I was lurched in the 4x4 kitchen feeding straight from the jar, like a rabid Rhesus monkey, on the forbidden fruit! I was actually being good, I thought to myself, since I wasn't eating them as God had intended — on a sea of whipped cream, resting on a crepe!

As the last voluptuous cherry slid down my parched throat I heard another call from the cupboard perch above!

It called softly…'You'll need protein to balance all those carbs!' True I thought. But, whom was it calling me with such knowledge of food osmosis? I quickly realized it was the Polar© Smoked Oysters demonically afloat in cottonseed oil (high saturated fats no less) that beckoned me. NO! I will resist. I will not…

Then my ovaries and I had an idea. The Rysa© whole wheat, high fiber, crackers I could lie the oysters upon while toughing would, should, technically, cancel out the thigh expanding fats they contained. Brilliant!

Before I knew it I had the small tin in my hand and was ripping back the tab to reveal the innocent little mollusks neatly sleeping in a row. I began to feed like a human tick, proud of my ability to think on my feet and combine foods in a manor that would make any high priced celebrity Hollywood weight physician proud.

Then , as the last smoky tidbit found it way down to my stomach I heard it! It was the fridgadaire and its Metropolis of nibbley bits demanding my attention from behind me. Louder, and more demanding than either the Markham cherries or the Polar© Smoked Oysters had been! A beast! A beast!

No! I will not feed from the fridge. I am a lady after all. I will resist the ovarian chants that filled my head like a symphony of calories! I have control. I can do it.

Hmm. Right. So, as I polished off the last crumb of blue cheese from the third drawer I thought, "Two Midols© and a cup of tea would hit the spot!"

I was filled with a new joy. This normal desire for pharmaceuticals and healthy teas meant the feasting I had tried so hard to quell had finally ceased - until next month anyway.

I put a pot of water on, swept away the cans, tins, and baggies from my simian feeding and went back to my fancy couch, enjoying the silence that had fallen over the apartment.

I switched on the wide screen and clicked over to the Food Channel™ where The Iron Chef ,with its fish bladder delicacies, was about to begin. This show would certainly not stir the demons of premenstrual munchies from their calm den!

I felt a small victory at least, at last!