Yesterday was my husband’s birthday. On Sunday I asked him what he wanted for his birthday supper.

Me: What do you want for your birthday supper?

Him: I don’t know.

Me: (Staring at him pointedly, waiting.)

Him: What?

Me: I said, what do you want for your birthday supper?

Him (dismissively): Whatever you want.

Me: I want to know what you want. That’s what I want.

Him: I don’t know!

Me: (Silence, waiting.)

Him (sighing heavily): Something that the kids like, I guess.

Me: (More silence. Still waiting.)

Him: Um…I like fried chicken. But that’s complicated, right? So never mind. It’s too complicated. I don’t want something that will stress you—

Me (thoroughly irritated): Is that what you want? Fried chicken?

Him (anxious): It sounds like a lot of work…

Me: That’s not your problem. I can make anything. If you want fried chicken, I’ll make fried chicken.

So yesterday afternoon, the kids and I drove to town to buy his birthday presents (gumdrops, spicy hot peanuts, tinned mints, and Skittles—we’re a real high-class bunch), and I got the chicken…from KFC.

Back home I dumped the mountain of extra crispy legs onto one of my big baking trays and slipped them into the oven to stay warm. I heated up some leftover corn, made a big bowl of mashed potatoes, and opened a jar of applesauce.

I dumped the contents of a boxed angel food cake into a mixing bowl, added water, mixed well, and slipped the pan of white goop in the oven to bake while we ate our supper.

My husband like the chicken. He asked lots of questions about it.

Him: This is good. What’s in the coating?

Me: See if you can guess.

Him: Probably flour and water and spices.

Me: That might be right.

Him: Cornflakes?

Me: No.

Him: Oatmeal?

Me: Nope.

Him: Bread crumbs?

Me: Um…I’m not exactly sure. (The kids were laughing their heads off.)

Him (comprehension dawning): You didn’t….make this. This…this is Kentucky Fried Chicken!

Me (giggling demurely): I told you fried chicken wouldn’t be a problem!

I didn’t take a picture of our gourmet chicken dinner, but I did snap a photo of the cake. Be impressed, y’all.

Do I ever know how to rock a birthday or what?

PS. We wrap our birthday gifts in newspaper. Real snazzy.

PPS. My husband was reading through this tonight, a little smile on his lips, when all of the sudden he erupted with a roar, THAT WAS A BOX CAKE?!

He didn’t know! I had no idea!

Moral: if you’re using a box cake, make it look real bad and everyone will think it’s homemade.

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (10.10.11), apple pie

Last Tuesday I hit bottom.

I am no stranger to emotional highs and lows. Normally, however, my moodiness is quite structured. Each month I have two stable weeks followed by two grumpy weeks. And yes, it all revolves around my period. Oh the joys.

My PMS infliction is quite humbling, for two reasons. One, I used to think PMS was a made-up condition. (Yes, I see the cosmic joke. Ha. Ha. Ha.) And two, being no better than my hormones does not make me feel very highly evolved.

On my PMS weeks, I’m wildly irritable, grumpy, and snarky. I stomp around the house. I moan a lot. My whole family is used to this, and my husband handles me like a pro—he alternates between keeping his distance, sending me to my room for time outs,  and poking fun at me.  The moodiness is miserable but manageable; there is an explanation and an end.

What hit me last week was no normal PMS. It was twelve hours of hardcore, clinical-like depression.

I know that duration is key in the definition of clinical depression, and that twelve hours hardly counts as depression in the truest sense. However, even though my episode lacked length (thank goodness) it packed a hefty dose of everything else. I know this because five years ago there was a string of weeks—weeks in which I couldn’t stop crying and putting on my socks felt like an insurmountable task—that culminated in a doctor’s visit and a saving prescription for a happy pill. Eighteen months later, I went off the antidepressants and I’ve been stable (or some derivative of stable) ever since.

Last Tuesday, I made it almost till noon before I cracked. I called my husband and sobbed in his ear. I canceled my afternoon appointments. I turned down a walk with my sister-in-law because I couldn’t bear to be around other humans. To pass the time till my husband got home, and to lessen the disappointment of the canceled trip to town, I let the kids watch a movie.

At first I thought Fiddler on the Roof was a great idea. Tevye made me smile in spite of myself, and just the fact that I was still able to stretch my face muscles upwards was encouraging. 

But then we hit Part Two: war, shattered dreams, children growing up and leaving their parents, sunrise, sunset, wah, wah, wah. My throat clenched up and my eyes started leaking all over again. I had to repeatedly leave the room to gather my wits. (There weren’t that many to gather.)

As soon as my husband arrived home, I headed out on a walk all by myself.

The clouds had been heavy and dark all day, perfectly mirroring my mood. I felt like I could crumble in a pile of snot at any moment, but I pushed on, willing myself to think about other things.

And then it occurred to me that in a few weeks my oldest would be thirteen. Thirteen! Immediately, my life as I know it was over. Sunrise, sunset. Throat clench. That dang eye leak again!  

My children would leave me and I—

BOOM!

A gunshot cracked, shattering the silence. The bullet whizzed through the valley and bounced off a barn roof—or at least that’s what it sounded like.  I flinched and looked down to see if I had any holes.

Miracle of miracles, I was intact! No blood!

I patted my chest to make sure.

BOOM!

Should I take cover? Did I look like a deer on two legs?

I walked faster, eager to get home to my wonderfully, fully-alive family. The heavy clouds suddenly no longer seemed nearly so oppressive. I was breathing! Life was good!

I muddled through the evening, sad but functional. The next morning, I walked around gingerly, afraid the beast would rear its ugly head. But it didn’t.

There is no neat ending to this tale. No pretty words.

Just the acknowledgment that, for some people, my bad Tuesday is their normal.

This same time, years previous: green tomato curry, pie pastry, with lard and egg (by far my favorite quiche crust), green soup with ginger, happy pappy-style cornbread