The Menstrual Fairy!
I hesitate to do this, because you all remember what happened last time I posted about being On The Rag, but I can't exactly not be funny for fear of the consequences. (I will leave that for Carrot Top and Whoopi Goldberg.)
I'm still putting this behind a cut for the squeamish - because, hey, I'm thoughtful like that.
I often awake to find that My Friend has come to visit, like Queen Mab in the night, only instead of waking like a lover, full of dreams of romance, I wake up like a jelly donut - sticky and bloated and full of inexplicable, unidentifiable, gooshing semi-fluids.
Now, don't anyone get me wrong. I have yet to see that first smear of pink on the toilet paper without crowing in delight. I love my period.
There are practical reasons for my love, of course. If, as the Catholics believe, you can sin by omission, I take great pleasure in "omitting" my monthly pre-fetus. But there are other reasons as well. Yes, if you must know, I really do buy into all that new-age bullshit about my period being a time of power.* I'm a fucking primitive. To ignorant, dirt-raking savages like me, the pussy is all powerful, and blood contains the soul. Therefore, bloody pussy is hellacious mojo.
So I really do see Men-Men, the Menstrual Fairy, as a true pal. My own private mini-muse, my personal Menstrual Mother Mary, a for-real friend.
And you know the thing about friends? They walk all over you.
The Menstrual Fairy must have have either hit a patch of bad weather or made every light green, because she arrived either a little early or very late,** and pulled up in her flying clitoris-pink Cadillac at about seven-thirty last night.
Most of the time, I'd say about four times out of five, a visit from the Menstrual Fairy is nothing to get worked up over. Par for the course, doesn't bother me in the least. Men-Men slips in, like a thief in the night, the only signs of her approach an inexplicable craving for crunchy foods and bone marrow, and a suspiciously short temper. The bad part (cramps, bitchiness) is over in a few short days. The bleeding? Doesn't bother me much.
But there are times when Men-Men is on some sort of drunken elfin bender, hanging out with all kinds of unsavory folks, and she arrives in a fury and announces herself with the uterine equivalent of a performance by taiko drummers.
Yeah. That was last night.
It felt like the guys from Kodo were camping out in my uterus, banging on that goddamn O-daiko from about seven-thirty to roughly eleven, when the second round of pain pills finally managed to make their intentions known.
I had no idea she was bringing friends. If you think of PMS as the RSVP to a party, telling you your friend is coming, then it is obvious that my PMS usually means that I am prepared, and the party goes smoothly.
No PMS, or brief, aggressive PMS is the equivalent of a last-minute drunken call from Men-Men asking if it's okay if she brings along some friends. And by friends, I mean enforcers, Heavy Flo and "Cramps" LePayne. And, by "is it okay?" Men-Men means "bitch, you don't have a choice, we're halfway through our second bottle of Wild Turkey and we're on our way over."
I know it will be bad.
To my mingled annoyance and relief, this month I've had very bad PMS. Men-Men rang ahead. "No trouble," she said. "I'll just drop in for my usual, and be out again. You won't even notice I'm there." I was expecting a pretty uneventful party in my panties.
You know, I trusted her. And look who she brought with her!
So I played unexpected host to Men-Men's friends, who partied hard all night long, if my dreams of giving birth to red-hot pangolins are any indication. They (Flo and Cramps, not the pangolins) have settled in for a long, hung-over morning, which means my innards are now cranky, and more pain medication is called for.
But Men-Men has timed her visit aright - tomorrow is the Feast of Chocolate. I have already laid in my supplies. Chocolate cookies, high-quality cocoa mix, red pepper (for the hot chocolate, seriously), and mini-marshmallows. All I need for a tea party with Men-Men and her goons. I don't normally whore myself for chocolate, but during Men-Men's visits, it's all that keeps me sane, I tell you.
There is a scientific basis for this, you see.
While it is known that caffeine, an ingredient in chocolate, causes smooth muscle contractions, thus increasing the severity of cramps of any kind, it is also a verified fact that the proper blood/chocolate ratio*** temporarily impairs the brain's ability to manufacture the hormone rodoproctin, making it impossible to give a rat's ass about anything, let alone pain.
This, combined with the appalling hormonal cocktail that Men-Men inevitably pours into your drink when you're not looking, makes it possible to reach a kind of chocolatey Nirvana where one is in a state of profound fury and pain, and yet has risen above it all.
Some people suspend themselves from hooks to reach this enlightened condition, others meditate in the snow, or walk barefoot across miles of stony ground in an effort to transcend physical suffering.
Is it any wonder that many of these people are men?
Women don't have to put themselves through all that crap. Men-Men comes and forces enlightenment on us at applicator-point. Her enforcers are there to rough us up, make us uncomfortable, playing Bad Cop/Worse Cop until we admit, yes, yes, we are lucky to be women. Now, please, just go away!
Speaking of which, I have to go cook something for "Cramps" LePayne, who is staggering around looking for food - you can't cause wrenching intestinal distress on an empty stomach! Heavy Flo is settled on the couch like a fat, surly aunt, eating fistfuls of Fiddle Faddle and idly heaving cushions at the cats. Men-Men is off somewhere, probably molesting Bunnsley.
I have company, you see. So I have to go.
Oh, and if you'll take a quick gander at my userinfo, you'll see why I'd prefer if you didn't metaquotes this. I don't need seven hundred more people staggering around this place, bumping into Cramps and Flo, making my life difficult. I'm funny, you love me, but I really have enough on my plate without the Mongol hordes invading with their mindless, gabbling Babel of 1337-sp33k and cre8iv _uzer_naymez_1101. Oh, and the pernicious, blinking diarrhea of animated icons.****
My only other choice is to just not be funny, so that nobody will be tempted to quote me, and have a journal where I talk about nothing but misspelled, angsty bullshit, post nothing but badly-transcribed song lyrics and quizzes like "How Many Tentacles Fit Up Your Anime Character's Ass?" (complete with illustrations), or, worse, say nothing at all so that I can't even be mocked for my asshattery.
While there is a time and place for all of that, that is not why you read me.
Apparently, more than 70% of you read me because I talk about my vagina.
Which is about the funniest thing I can think of.
Period.
*****
* Seriously. I do. No matter how I bitch, or how irreverent I am.
** I am tempted here to paraphrase Gandalf. "The Menstrual Fairy is never late. She arrives precisely when she means to."
*** Ideally, you hemmorhage Hershey's syrup.
**** Speaking of annoying blinky icons, if someone could put some little blinking animated glitter stars on the crimson fountain o' womanhood in this icon? That would be swell. (It's called irony, and it's good for the blood.)
link
I'm still putting this behind a cut for the squeamish - because, hey, I'm thoughtful like that.
I often awake to find that My Friend has come to visit, like Queen Mab in the night, only instead of waking like a lover, full of dreams of romance, I wake up like a jelly donut - sticky and bloated and full of inexplicable, unidentifiable, gooshing semi-fluids.
Now, don't anyone get me wrong. I have yet to see that first smear of pink on the toilet paper without crowing in delight. I love my period.
There are practical reasons for my love, of course. If, as the Catholics believe, you can sin by omission, I take great pleasure in "omitting" my monthly pre-fetus. But there are other reasons as well. Yes, if you must know, I really do buy into all that new-age bullshit about my period being a time of power.* I'm a fucking primitive. To ignorant, dirt-raking savages like me, the pussy is all powerful, and blood contains the soul. Therefore, bloody pussy is hellacious mojo.
So I really do see Men-Men, the Menstrual Fairy, as a true pal. My own private mini-muse, my personal Menstrual Mother Mary, a for-real friend.
And you know the thing about friends? They walk all over you.
The Menstrual Fairy must have have either hit a patch of bad weather or made every light green, because she arrived either a little early or very late,** and pulled up in her flying clitoris-pink Cadillac at about seven-thirty last night.
Most of the time, I'd say about four times out of five, a visit from the Menstrual Fairy is nothing to get worked up over. Par for the course, doesn't bother me in the least. Men-Men slips in, like a thief in the night, the only signs of her approach an inexplicable craving for crunchy foods and bone marrow, and a suspiciously short temper. The bad part (cramps, bitchiness) is over in a few short days. The bleeding? Doesn't bother me much.
But there are times when Men-Men is on some sort of drunken elfin bender, hanging out with all kinds of unsavory folks, and she arrives in a fury and announces herself with the uterine equivalent of a performance by taiko drummers.
Yeah. That was last night.
It felt like the guys from Kodo were camping out in my uterus, banging on that goddamn O-daiko from about seven-thirty to roughly eleven, when the second round of pain pills finally managed to make their intentions known.
I had no idea she was bringing friends. If you think of PMS as the RSVP to a party, telling you your friend is coming, then it is obvious that my PMS usually means that I am prepared, and the party goes smoothly.
No PMS, or brief, aggressive PMS is the equivalent of a last-minute drunken call from Men-Men asking if it's okay if she brings along some friends. And by friends, I mean enforcers, Heavy Flo and "Cramps" LePayne. And, by "is it okay?" Men-Men means "bitch, you don't have a choice, we're halfway through our second bottle of Wild Turkey and we're on our way over."
I know it will be bad.
To my mingled annoyance and relief, this month I've had very bad PMS. Men-Men rang ahead. "No trouble," she said. "I'll just drop in for my usual, and be out again. You won't even notice I'm there." I was expecting a pretty uneventful party in my panties.
You know, I trusted her. And look who she brought with her!
So I played unexpected host to Men-Men's friends, who partied hard all night long, if my dreams of giving birth to red-hot pangolins are any indication. They (Flo and Cramps, not the pangolins) have settled in for a long, hung-over morning, which means my innards are now cranky, and more pain medication is called for.
But Men-Men has timed her visit aright - tomorrow is the Feast of Chocolate. I have already laid in my supplies. Chocolate cookies, high-quality cocoa mix, red pepper (for the hot chocolate, seriously), and mini-marshmallows. All I need for a tea party with Men-Men and her goons. I don't normally whore myself for chocolate, but during Men-Men's visits, it's all that keeps me sane, I tell you.
There is a scientific basis for this, you see.
While it is known that caffeine, an ingredient in chocolate, causes smooth muscle contractions, thus increasing the severity of cramps of any kind, it is also a verified fact that the proper blood/chocolate ratio*** temporarily impairs the brain's ability to manufacture the hormone rodoproctin, making it impossible to give a rat's ass about anything, let alone pain.
This, combined with the appalling hormonal cocktail that Men-Men inevitably pours into your drink when you're not looking, makes it possible to reach a kind of chocolatey Nirvana where one is in a state of profound fury and pain, and yet has risen above it all.
Some people suspend themselves from hooks to reach this enlightened condition, others meditate in the snow, or walk barefoot across miles of stony ground in an effort to transcend physical suffering.
Is it any wonder that many of these people are men?
Women don't have to put themselves through all that crap. Men-Men comes and forces enlightenment on us at applicator-point. Her enforcers are there to rough us up, make us uncomfortable, playing Bad Cop/Worse Cop until we admit, yes, yes, we are lucky to be women. Now, please, just go away!
Speaking of which, I have to go cook something for "Cramps" LePayne, who is staggering around looking for food - you can't cause wrenching intestinal distress on an empty stomach! Heavy Flo is settled on the couch like a fat, surly aunt, eating fistfuls of Fiddle Faddle and idly heaving cushions at the cats. Men-Men is off somewhere, probably molesting Bunnsley.
I have company, you see. So I have to go.
Oh, and if you'll take a quick gander at my userinfo, you'll see why I'd prefer if you didn't metaquotes this. I don't need seven hundred more people staggering around this place, bumping into Cramps and Flo, making my life difficult. I'm funny, you love me, but I really have enough on my plate without the Mongol hordes invading with their mindless, gabbling Babel of 1337-sp33k and cre8iv _uzer_naymez_1101. Oh, and the pernicious, blinking diarrhea of animated icons.****
My only other choice is to just not be funny, so that nobody will be tempted to quote me, and have a journal where I talk about nothing but misspelled, angsty bullshit, post nothing but badly-transcribed song lyrics and quizzes like "How Many Tentacles Fit Up Your Anime Character's Ass?" (complete with illustrations), or, worse, say nothing at all so that I can't even be mocked for my asshattery.
While there is a time and place for all of that, that is not why you read me.
Apparently, more than 70% of you read me because I talk about my vagina.
Which is about the funniest thing I can think of.
Period.
*****
* Seriously. I do. No matter how I bitch, or how irreverent I am.
** I am tempted here to paraphrase Gandalf. "The Menstrual Fairy is never late. She arrives precisely when she means to."
*** Ideally, you hemmorhage Hershey's syrup.
**** Speaking of annoying blinky icons, if someone could put some little blinking animated glitter stars on the crimson fountain o' womanhood in this icon? That would be swell. (It's called irony, and it's good for the blood.)
link