Reader, if you were ever going to pass on reading a post, I warn you: This may be the one. I wouldn’t blame you one bit, and knowing that I was going to warn you to pass on it, I thought to self, “well, why even write it then? not everything needs to be blagged (wordmash: blah/blogged) about.”
But then? The words, they just wanna come. Sorry.
True Story #1.
My period arrived during the middle of a work day. Hello, Friend, good to see you. Yes, I consider my period my friend. Cause it means there’s no baby takin‘ root in my uterus and I celebrate sex that doesn’t produce children. For myself. Not that there’s anything wrong with it for others. Others, I emphatically repeat.
So here she is, and I need a tampon. I take the logical step of trying to buy one in the restroom, forgetting that the machine in the nearest ladies room is a quarter-sucking bitch who takes and takes, giving nothing in return.
What to do? Well, for you who may not know how ladies bathroom sanitary protection machines function, they generally have two selections: a side with pads, and a side with plugs, with separate coin slots.
I don’t even know why pads exist as an option, but I’ve been giving it some thought for the past couple of days (when Kenny wonders what I’m lost in deep thought about, I shout out stuff like “E = MC squared!!”) and have reached a couple conclusions as to why a person, given the option, would choose a pad vs. a tampon. Here are my scientific study results:
1/ Pad wins over tampon when you’re having vagina hole troubles. For instance, if you just squirted a baby outta that thing, you probably wouldn’t want to stick anything back in the hole for quite a while.
2/ Pad wins over tampon if maybe you’ve strained something down there during exercise or something. I don’t know the specifics to that scenario, I just considered it as a possibility of when they might come in handy.
3/ Pad wins over tampon if you’ve had lot lot lot of sex and the hole just needs a rest. Again, I’m just considering scenarios.
4/ Pad wins over tampon if you’re a young girl and don’t want to stick anything up there just yet, like you’re a really young bloomer due to all the hormones in milk and stuff, and your body has been tricked into getting ready for business, but you’re still playing with dolls (ahem. no reference to myself or anything).
But I digress. So the tampon side isn’t working, and I consider my options.
Option #1: The Murdoch Method. Which I’ve just learned from his blog post: “when you don’t know what to do, do nothing.” But after further consideration, I didn’t think this was a situation where that would apply. I don’t think that was designed for the times you have blood spraying outta yer blowhole (how my ex-husband summed up a menses).
Option #2: Roll toilet paper between your palms, forming your own tube and shoving it up there. No strings attached.
Option #3: Pay a quarter and buy a pad.
I went with Option 3. Even though, I will tell you, the whole thought of a pad is a little gross to me, but then most things that go on south of the border are questionable anyway, so what makes this special.
And then? I was pleasantly surprised by it. Once I had it nestled into place, it felt like a little pillow down there, all cushiony and nice. A little pussy pillow. That’s how they should market them, if you ask me, and I bet they’d revolutionize the industry.
“Does your pussy toss and turn all night, but no matter what you try, she just can’t get comfortable? Try a Pussy Pillow (I think I need to trademark this!) and help your vagina get the good night’s sleep it deserves!”
“Does your pussy wake up in the morning with a stiff upper lip? Treat your vagina to a contour Pussy Pillow with memory foam, and you’ll never suffer from a stiff lip again.”
Dear Garth, help me. I don’t know where I’m going with this.
It wasn’t that unpleasant. It was a little comforting and nice. That’s all I’m trying to say. Comfort comes in all forms, I guess. There, how’s that for an inspiring message? Epic SAVE of this story!
True Story #2.
Today is Saturday. The Saturday before my birthday. Kenny offered to take me to the Food Show as my gift, which was a super-fun idea as I’d much rather have an event than another thing in the house. So we did that today, and today I love him because he’s a good good man to me, and he does very nice and thoughtful things for me, even though he’s a messy person to live with. He’s kind to me, cats and old people. And that’s the important stuff (note to self: when you’re tripping over his shit all over the house, and see the crumbs left behind in his wake, go back and re-read this!).
But anyway. Due to a little (well, huge, actually, cupcakes were used as a weapon and everything) disagreement, I’ve been on a laundry strike. I’ve been doing my own, but very sporadically, and now today, the Saturday before my birthday, I had to Pay the Piper. I hate The Piper.
I had no clean undies.
Except for one pair, balled up in the back of the drawer. The very pair that came as part of my Merry Christmas ‘Santa’s Little Helper’ nightie get-up that someone got for Christmas last year.
They are made out of a red crushed velvet, with black velvet bows. “Ah, what the hell,” I said in my head, and pulled ’em out of the drawer. I can rock the Christmas wrap around the Food Show today.
But? It quickly became obvious that these panties are not made for distance trips. They’re built for show, not for go. They are a full-panty, actually, not a thong or anything, with a full “seat.” But whatever is going on with them, they are NOT meant to stay up. I’ve never before had a full panty just roll down before! But they did, with every step, they just rolled right down in the back, until they were bunched up right underneath my ass cheeks. Couldn’t keep ’em up.
I thought about taking them off completely, but I did not want to get all into removing my jeans in a public restroom, there were just too many things to consider with that move. So I left them to do their own thing and just walked around for five hours with my underwear bunched up under my ass. Good thing I wasn’t wearing a pad, I don’t know what that would have meant for that whole situation.
There you have it. Against my better judgement, I shared this site with a co-worker, who has her own blog and it’s very inspiring and uplifting and I knew I was making a mistake because there is NONE of this she needs to know about, and I can only hope that she checked it out once and decided it wasn’t for her because while most of it is pretty easy-going nonsense, sometimes I just need to share stories that concern my vagina. I don’t know why, but I don’t wanna become a self-censorer, either. Thank/Blame Al Gore for inventing the Internet.