WARNING: Guys, unless you are totally cool with the female body, you might want to skip this post. And I'm not talking about touching or drooling over them. I mean the inner workings, the anatomy, the cyclical nature of our bodies.
Got it? Good. You've been warned. I want no complaining if you choose to go forward.
I had tea with my friend T this morning. We haven't seen each other in several months despite living only a few minutes from one another. That's what motherhood is like, kiddies. One minute you're the belle of the social ball, and the next you're having to reschedule an hour-long tea-drinking session three times before it actually happens.
The nice thing is, if you have a solid female friendship, conversation and comfort levels are easily picked up where you left off even months before. It doesn't get awkward.
I'd like to state that, after today, I'm absolutely certain T and I have that kind of friendship.
After drinking a pot each at the nicest tea room I've been to in probably ever, she came with me to the store to get a few things. One of those items was a box of sanitary napkins.
Okay, but seriously: who calls them "sanitary napkins"? Am I a 1930's grandma? No. Pads. They're pads. And I generally hate the things, but I hate them slightly less than tampons. There's no shoving anything up anywhere and then feeling like a kangaroo. But instead of a pouch you have a vagina, and instead of carrying around a baby kangaroo you're carrying around what feels like one of those little cocktail weenies.
So, basically it's exactly like a kangaroo. I'm an expert analogizer. I'm also an expert word maker-upper.
I was going to go with my usual standby pads. I only get them because the wrapper is pretty. Seriously. It's an embarrassing thing to admit. Feminists everywhere are throwing their diva cups and marketing pamphlets at the screen right now and screaming at me. I deserve it. But keep reading.
T suggested I try out the kind she uses, which she claims is not only extremely comfortable, but also impressively absorbant. They were on sale, which made them comparable to the brand I normally buy. I picked them up and examined the wrappers. Not quite as pretty as my usuals, but not ugly either. Nice enough to have in my purse. So I threw them in the cart.
I am so sorry for the last couple of sentences, angry feminists. I swear underneath this shallow, ignorant exterior I'm one of you. Just go read my posts on body image before you make dartboards out of my face, ok? And keep reading.
We left the store and I threw everything in the trunk. We got into the car and I leaned over and put my purse in the back seat. And, of course, knocked over the leftover smoothie Spawnling never finished, which was sitting in a cup holder. The smoothie I almost threw out yesterday but didn't feel like making an extra trip to bring in. That one. Yep. All over my new-ish floor mats. There's some car-ma for you.
"Dammit!" I exclaimed, frantically looking for something to wipe it up with. I had no tissues or napkins. Nothing. T checked her purse and had none of those things, either.
Then, suddenly: "But I have this!" she said, and whipped out a pad. "It's the same kind I told you to buy. Maybe it'll work."
The man getting into his van next to us glanced over to see two women excitedly discussing what looked to be a feminine hygiene product.
"Seriously? You think that'll work?" I wasn't sure, but the car was starting to smell like two-day-old strawberry smoothie. We had to act fast.
She opened it up. "Feel it! Feel how spongy it is! I haven't had a leak since I started using these."
By now the guy beside us was openly staring at two chicks fondling a pad. This was probably the worst intimate girl scene he'd ever witnessed. But, like a train wreck, he couldn't look away.
I took the pad from her and reached into the back, dabbing the large puddle with it.
"Holy shit, T. HOLY SHIT. This is really working!"
"Is it?" she asked excitedly.
"Wait until you see this thing! It's fucking magical!"
I held up a large, heavy, fully used pad filled with a peachy pink substance. We were amazed. I then rolled it up and stuffed it into an empty coffee cup.
At this point, the guy beside us drove away. I'm positive we ruined that whole girl-on-girl fantasy for him for the rest of his life. He's going to go home and denounce all pornography. Consider me redeemed, angry feminists.
Besides which, the whole moral of this story is that I chose the brand that actually works over the pretty ones. And, after today, I am extremely loyal to them. They saved my hybrid from becoming a place where smoothie spills go to die. And stink while they die. And make me frown and/or pout whenever I look at the the crime scene all over my mats.
Thank you, T. And thank you, pad. We reached a new level of intimacy today, much to the dismay of traumatized onlookers.
Got it? Good. You've been warned. I want no complaining if you choose to go forward.
I had tea with my friend T this morning. We haven't seen each other in several months despite living only a few minutes from one another. That's what motherhood is like, kiddies. One minute you're the belle of the social ball, and the next you're having to reschedule an hour-long tea-drinking session three times before it actually happens.
The nice thing is, if you have a solid female friendship, conversation and comfort levels are easily picked up where you left off even months before. It doesn't get awkward.
I'd like to state that, after today, I'm absolutely certain T and I have that kind of friendship.
After drinking a pot each at the nicest tea room I've been to in probably ever, she came with me to the store to get a few things. One of those items was a box of sanitary napkins.
 |
| Also known as "sanitary towels", apparently. That makes them so much grosser. |
Okay, but seriously: who calls them "sanitary napkins"? Am I a 1930's grandma? No. Pads. They're pads. And I generally hate the things, but I hate them slightly less than tampons. There's no shoving anything up anywhere and then feeling like a kangaroo. But instead of a pouch you have a vagina, and instead of carrying around a baby kangaroo you're carrying around what feels like one of those little cocktail weenies.
So, basically it's exactly like a kangaroo. I'm an expert analogizer. I'm also an expert word maker-upper.
I was going to go with my usual standby pads. I only get them because the wrapper is pretty. Seriously. It's an embarrassing thing to admit. Feminists everywhere are throwing their diva cups and marketing pamphlets at the screen right now and screaming at me. I deserve it. But keep reading.
T suggested I try out the kind she uses, which she claims is not only extremely comfortable, but also impressively absorbant. They were on sale, which made them comparable to the brand I normally buy. I picked them up and examined the wrappers. Not quite as pretty as my usuals, but not ugly either. Nice enough to have in my purse. So I threw them in the cart.
I am so sorry for the last couple of sentences, angry feminists. I swear underneath this shallow, ignorant exterior I'm one of you. Just go read my posts on body image before you make dartboards out of my face, ok? And keep reading.
We left the store and I threw everything in the trunk. We got into the car and I leaned over and put my purse in the back seat. And, of course, knocked over the leftover smoothie Spawnling never finished, which was sitting in a cup holder. The smoothie I almost threw out yesterday but didn't feel like making an extra trip to bring in. That one. Yep. All over my new-ish floor mats. There's some car-ma for you.
"Dammit!" I exclaimed, frantically looking for something to wipe it up with. I had no tissues or napkins. Nothing. T checked her purse and had none of those things, either.
Then, suddenly: "But I have this!" she said, and whipped out a pad. "It's the same kind I told you to buy. Maybe it'll work."
The man getting into his van next to us glanced over to see two women excitedly discussing what looked to be a feminine hygiene product.
"Seriously? You think that'll work?" I wasn't sure, but the car was starting to smell like two-day-old strawberry smoothie. We had to act fast.
She opened it up. "Feel it! Feel how spongy it is! I haven't had a leak since I started using these."
By now the guy beside us was openly staring at two chicks fondling a pad. This was probably the worst intimate girl scene he'd ever witnessed. But, like a train wreck, he couldn't look away.
I took the pad from her and reached into the back, dabbing the large puddle with it.
"Holy shit, T. HOLY SHIT. This is really working!"
"Is it?" she asked excitedly.
"Wait until you see this thing! It's fucking magical!"
I held up a large, heavy, fully used pad filled with a peachy pink substance. We were amazed. I then rolled it up and stuffed it into an empty coffee cup.
At this point, the guy beside us drove away. I'm positive we ruined that whole girl-on-girl fantasy for him for the rest of his life. He's going to go home and denounce all pornography. Consider me redeemed, angry feminists.
Besides which, the whole moral of this story is that I chose the brand that actually works over the pretty ones. And, after today, I am extremely loyal to them. They saved my hybrid from becoming a place where smoothie spills go to die. And stink while they die. And make me frown and/or pout whenever I look at the the crime scene all over my mats.
Thank you, T. And thank you, pad. We reached a new level of intimacy today, much to the dismay of traumatized onlookers.