Too Bloody Right. Seriously, Too Bloody 

One time in high school, during one of the times when everyone was writing each other letters, even though they would see each other every day, I was writing an inspired letter to a friend and the general theme was menstruation – written in red ink, drawn-on drips down the side of the page, puddles here and there, maybe even a bloody tampon cartooned somewhere (Please no), so anyway. Dad walks in to say something and I’m sitting at my desk with the obligatory study lamp glaring onto the red-ruined white page and of course, sees what I’m doing (decorating/ defacing). He glances; we exchange pleasantries; he exits; my pen picks up where it left off.

Was he grossed out? At the time I thought he would have been, I certainly was. If course, now, I know what husbands witness their wives going through so he probably wasn’t even. Was he glad that I was owning it rather than letting it own me? I had been owned by my period for a long time because obvs, that shit is freaky and gross and scary. Blood in ya junk. Picture Jason Stackhouse overloaded on V, scared and alone with blood in his junk and not happy with what comes next. Not quite that extreme with the needle but a good camparison generally.

Now, I’m wondering if characters that I’m writing should be casual in their references to periods and rags and all things monthly-related, because that’s what grown ups do, apparently. I have 3 young boys so I’m not really casually mentioning it myself, except when a friend comes over and we joke about synchronizing cycles. But that doesn’t change the fact that bleeding from ya junk is gross, even as an aside to beautiful and useful nature doing wonderful things. Maybe real women do have those conversations, but I was never a single in a share house, so I don’t know. I suppose if it was funny, then I could stomach reading stuff, but that’s not empowering readers, though. It shouldn’t have to be funny, it should just be real. 

(deliberating while Husband snores)

K. I will try and put nonchalant blood in an upcoming storyline. Over and out.


Welcome Back Bitch!

Husband and I have flown into SanFran for a wedding sans kids (my parents are in town) and we are hob-knobbing at the groom’s parents house. We often see these friends annually on holidays but we haven’t visited this house for ten plus years and that first/last occasion is burned into my brain for not the best reason…
Husband proposed to me and then a few months later we flew into the US for his cousin’s wedding in TX and we also did a drive from SanFran to Oregon and planned our future lives during the drive. Anyhoo, on our last day at our friends’ house we had nothing doing before we left and so Husband showed me the lovely backyard. Bear in mind that I had been on the rag that week. Oh yeah, it’s one of those stories. I couldn’t find my bag to take with me so I forgot it to go and see the lovely yard. And the yard was lovely – blooming, fragrant, paved in part, private, the list of adjectives goes on. And there, in the middle of that pretty space, was my bag, with the remainder of the box of tampons, all over the ground. They were bitten, blown around, and generally LITTERING THE WHOLE GODDAMN YARD. The dog, the fucking dog, couldn’t get enough of me and so she had at some point, snuck into our room and stolen my bag to get a noseful before I walked out of her life forever, unbeknownst to her that I would eventually return. I was mortified to discover that picturesque blending of menstrual cotton and flagstone A) at all, B) in front of my newly-minted fiancé and C) thankfully – SO THANKFULLY – not in the company of our hosts. OMFG.
And so here we are, today. I was forced to face the scene of that particular crime against me and the yard wasn’t as verdant as I recall, but the dog looked just as guilty, but maybe her head was down because she was attempting to sniff me out, bitch!

These Are Just A Few

… of my favourite things… about getting my period, because that’s what’s on my mind right now, not my money, 
contrary to what the song would suggest.

1. I’m not pregnant! As an aside, Husband has been fixed so that would be a miracle of biblical proportions anyway. But in other news, this monthly pain in the ass occurrence still feels a bit like having a baby, the actual having a baby part, and I’m not down with that, yo.


Ha! Or whatever

2. I can eat whatever I want because I WANT

3. I talk about my feelings and desires in no uncertain terms during this time TOUCH ME AND YOU DIE, to avoid confusion.

4. My DIVA CUP enables me to turn somersaults during my sleep without concern for icky stuff. Google it.

5. I remember all of the important things I’ve forgotten over the years while I’m lying in my little heap in a quiet corner.

6. If all else fails I simply remember my favorite things, and then I don’t feel so bad