Tag Archives: girls

PMS, Period Diarrhea, and The Missing Tampon String

This morning I got my period. This isn’t usually a pleasant experience for anyone, but for me it’s particularly bad. The week leading up to my period, I get PMS, which stands for: “I am a fragile baby animal with many emotions”. Once, in the throes of PMS, I sat on the kitchen floor crying because we ran out of peanut butter. Two nights ago, PMS reared its ugly head and I sobbed to Boyfriend that I had no friends and our cat didn’t even like me even though I literally only adopted him so that I could have a friend. In addition to my breakdowns, I get period-diarrhea, headaches, cramps, and several times throughout the day I have to peek inside my pants because I think my period started when it actually hasn’t. I imagine my uterus snickering, “Made you look!” every time this happens.

When my period finally hits, the first day is like full-on periodgeddon. The diarrhea comes full force, chunky blood (yes, I said chunky) gushes out of me like Niagara Falls, and my uterus cramps so bad I can do nothing but ingest a ton of extra-strength ibuprofen and curl into fetal position (THIS IS SADLY NOT AN EXAGGERATION). Today is no different. Except now I have a cat. He’s usually kind of a douche but he was very loving today, which turned out to be weird when I sat on the toilet letting the diarrhea flow and he jumped onto my lap, purring. I was torn between being grossed out or touched but he was too happy to move so I let it happen.

Anyway, I’m writing this post because I was g-chatting Boyfriend while he was at work, relaying every gruesome detail about my nether regions with a sadistic pleasure. He offered to get me more tampons because I was running out, so I sent him a picture of the EXACT box (Playtex/Sports/Super+Regular) that I wanted lest he become lost in the tampon aisle. I told him I believed in him before excusing myself to change my tampon. In the bathroom, I couldn’t find the tampon string. This happens occasionally, and normally it’s squished up against my vagina. But this time was different. This time it took me a minute to discover there was no string. Meaning, there was only one place to look. INSIDE MY BLOODY VAGINA. When this realization struck me, I cried. Then I texted my mother and sister calmly stating, “I CANT FIND MY TAMPON STRING HELP ME”. I then g-chatted my boyfriend updating him on the terrifying turn this day took (panicked, he asked if I should go to the doctor, but after consulting the interwebs I informed him tampons are too big to fit through the cervix, duh, so the only place it could be was my vagina and the only way to get it was to dig around and aren’t you glad you’re a man?!). Knowing what was coming, I stood in the bathroom crying “fuck fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck nononononono”. I really didn’t want to dig around for this stupid fucking tampon. It’s not like it would harm me to do so. It’s just that at that moment, the thought of sticking a fist into my bloody vaginal depths made me feel a little nauseous. I accept that I’m a wimp.

After many minutes of a self-pep-talk, I finally bit the bullet. My fingers plunged in (it wasn’t nearly as nice as the last time my fingers were in there) and searched around for a while until I finally grasped the string. And, as I pulled it, I discovered the end of the string was burrowed into my butt crack. What a beautiful ending to the story. When my hand emerged from down below and I threw the vindictive tampon away, I looked as if I had plunged my hand into somebody’s chest and ripped out their heart. Now I know what it would look like if I had tried to stop someone from bleeding out. I vigorously washed my hands as my cat sat in the corner wondering who the fuck I had just murdered. People make fun of me for preferring pads but this NEVER WOULD HAVE HAPPENED if I was wearing a pad. Ugh. I’m ready for a hysterectomy.

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Apparently I Have an Abnormally High Sex Drive

I’m pretty sure I’m the stereotypical guy in every relationship. It doesn’t help that to start off I’m not a very “girly” person. I rarely wear makeup, I fail at shaving my legs consistently, and when I try and shop for semi-nice clothes I always end up buying six graphic t-shirts. I literally called my mother the other day to ask if it was okay to pee while wearing a tampon (The answer is Yes, or in my mother’s words, “What are you, 12? The urethra is a completely different thing from your uterus”). That’s how bad I am at being a girl.

None of this really bothers me, though. What bothers me is that I always seem to have a higher sex drive than all the guys I date. Don’t get me wrong; I’m definitely not obsessed with sex or anything. I’m just always the one to start it. And if we go a certain number of days without sex, the number is like one of those flipcharts at a warehouse, except instead of Days Without Injury, it’s Days Without Sex. This was first called to my attention when an Ex and I were doing a Seventeen Magazine Couples Quiz. Yes, I want to kill myself right now too. So, we were doing this stupid quiz, and one of the questions was, “Would you say your sex drive is low, normal, or high?” Ex subsequently puts his foot in his mouth and replies, “Yours is definitely higher than mine.” I had a sudden flashback montage reliving all of our Sexy Times in which, yep, I definitely started it every time. I became instantly embarrassed at my apparent tendency to be a sex-crazed horndog (although this shouldn’t have come as a surprise considering I told a guy I loved him just to get in his pants).

Since that moment, I’ve been acutely aware that I seem to have a higher sex drive than most of the boys I date. (Thanks Seventeen Magazine, for ruining my life one couples quiz at a time). I’m the one trying to feel up my boyfriend during a movie while he distractedly pushes my hand away so he can appreciate the dialogue. I’m the one trying to make out with my boyfriend at eleven pm while he explains he has work in the morning and has to get up early. And I’m the one who gets antsy if we haven’t had sex in a week and worries why it doesn’t seem to bother him in the slightest. It wasn’t until I had a conversation with a female friend who echoed my sentiments that I didn’t feel like a complete freak. And honestly maybe it just seems weird because in our culture, guys are the ones who are typically portrayed as wanting sex all the time. Well, whatever. I have now come to terms with the fact that, yes, I have a higher sex drive than the boys I date. No, it does not mean I’m a sex addict. No, it does not mean they’re not attracted to me. Yes, I need to learn how to properly masturbate and get over my fear of vibrators. But that’s a story for another post.

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I Almost Killed My Housemate’s Pet

Dear Blue House,

It’s been two years, and I think it’s finally time for me to move on. Why, you ask? How about the fact that there are ten people living there and only two showers? Or what about the dead cockroaches that the pest control people killed and left behind? Or the wannabe opera singer who never stops practicing? I’ve heard stories about exotic pet babysitters, and that pimp who threw knives at the sorority girls. But now that I’ve experienced my own traumatic experience, it’s time for me to go.

—-

With ten housemates, you’re bound to live with some weirdos. Room 6, otherwise known as Spike, listens to 80s Russian metal music non-stop, wears a pirate earring, and asked me to lace up his corset on Halloween. Spike and I have never gotten along. Maybe it’s because I like to think of myself as fairly normal and Spike sacrifices baby lambs in his room on full moons (most likely). Our mutual dislike began one afternoon, around seven months ago, when I opened the freezer to retrieve my dinner of frozen tater tots (this was when I was still single, okay?!), but instead of Trader Joe’s delicious package of Food for the Lonely, a dead, frozen white mouse fell out of the freezer and on to me. I hate dead animals. I physically shudder when I see roadkill. Alone in the kitchen with a dead mouse on the floor and no one around to get rid of it, I was the sole person responsible for putting it back in the freezer before it defrosted and we had to clean up melted mouse. After staring at the mouse in horror for five minutes, I threw it back in the freezer accompanied by the sticky note “Who has a dead mouse in the freezer and why??? That is disgusting!”. A new sticky note appeared a day later with the message, “It’s for Spike’s pet.” STRIKE ONE, SPIKE. STRIKE ONE.

Strike two occurred several months later. Just arriving home from work, I happily jogged up to the door that led to my bedroom when I spotted something curled up by the back gate. As I stepped closer, I realized with a shock that I was staring at a dead three-foot-long bull python, curled up in a ball. The only things I hate more than dead animals are snakes. They don’t have legs so HOW DO THEY MOVE. It’s not natural. I held back the gags and ran past it into the house. I’ve never seen any snakes in the area, so my mind immediately went to Spike’s pet. I knocked on the door of the only housemate that was Spike’s friend, and after inspecting the dead snake he confirmed that it was Spike’s. “Spike lost one of his bull pythons a couple weeks ago…it looks like it died of starvation”, he said, poking it with a stick. I gleaned three important pieces of information from that conversation. 1) Spike owns more than one bull python. 2) It went missing several weeks ago and no one bothered to tell me. 3) The snake died from starvation right outside the door to my room. I can only assume it was on its way to eat me but died before finishing the mission. STRIKE TWO, DAMMIT.

And now we come to the third and final strike. Fast-forward two months later to the week before I move out of this house. I just got back from a run and sat down on the steps outside my door, listening to music and checking my email while I cooled down before going back in the house. Spike and all his friends gathered outside on the patio, which was a couple steps down from the tiny staircase I sat on. Seeing that they were clearly about to congregate in numbers and socialize, I stood up to go back inside, not in the mood for witnessing a virgin sacrifice. As I stepped towards my door, I stepped on something. I looked down to see a three-and-a-half-foot-long bull python squirming under my foot. I screamed and shot up the stairs. Just to make it clear, this was under my foot:

Ball_python_lucy

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I am here to consume your soul”
(source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Python_regius)

I yanked out my earphones as Spike walked over to his snake and picked it up. His friends rushed over, cooing, “Is the snake okay?” as I stood at the top of the stairs experiencing full-body shakes. They stood in front of my door, caressing the snake, until I screamed, “SPIKE GET YOUR SNAKE BACK INSIDE SO I CAN GO TO MY ROOM.” I never yell at my housemates, even Spike, but I can assure you the entire neighborhood heard me. When he finally took the snake, I ran inside, threw my shoe across the room because I didn’t want it touching me anymore knowing it had touched a snake, and burst into tears thinking about how if I hadn’t stood up at that moment, the snake would’ve crawled on me (please visit the previous image to fully understand my uncontrollable sobs).

The next morning, I bumped into Spike. Our conversation went as follows:

Spike: I didn’t know you were that scared of snakes.
Me: Well, it took me by surprise.
Spike: At least he doesn’t have any broken bones. He’s just freaked out.
Me: Not as freaked out as me.
Spike: No, I think it’s pretty even.
Me: I’m not going to argue with you about who was freaked out more, me or the snake.
Spike: It was my fault, I put him in danger. I did it because I thought it was just going to startle you.

And then my eyes bugged out of my head because he just admitted to releasing his snake on me ON PURPOSE to try and scare me.

Strike three and you’re out. Except in this case I’m the one out because there was no way I was staying in that house another minute. Goodbye, Blue House. It’s been…well, it’s never been boring. I can give you that.

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A Week of Failures

While my life as a whole is chockfull of failures, I was particularly successful this week in failing at being an adult. I’m like the opposite of Midas. Everything I touch turns to poop.

First, one of my old bosses hired me to dogsit. I was running late (what’s new) and didn’t have time to scour the streets of LA to find parking for the night, so I parked on a street with a billion signs and vaguely remember seeing words like “Permit Only” and “Will be towed”, but I was like, “Pssh they don’t really mean it, I’m 21 and invincible” and proceeded to park there anyway. After the dogsitting in which the dog growled at me and ran under the bed when I offered to walk her, my boss drove me back to my car. While we were driving down the street I parked on, he asked, “Are you sure this isn’t permit parking? They’re really strict.” And then we saw the tow truck with my car attached and forgetting I was in the company of my employer I stated, “Fuck.” My boss then proceeded to argue with the tow guy about their ridiculous towing laws while I stood quietly in a cornering whispering, “It’s okay it was my fault please let me pay I’ll do whatever it takes stop fighting I want to die” (I hate confrontation). Too busy arguing, they missed me drowning in a swamp of my own embarrassment, begging them to let me pay so I could take my car, drive home, and die in a ditch. Eventually I convinced them to let me pay the $160 fine and I finally got to go home, listen to The Smiths, and vow to myself that neither parent will EVER find out about this.

A couple days later, I was at the 10-East entrance on La Brea where a homeless guy stood at the stoplight right before you get on the freeway. He violently shook an empty cup at my window hoping to appeal to my humanity, so of course I did the ‘ol avoid-eye-contact-and-shove-my-purse-under-the-seat. As the cars inched forward, he suddenly stopped, turned towards the guardrail, and stuck his hand in his pants. Fascinated, I watched what I thought was about to be a homeless guy whipping his dick out on the freeway entrance when I felt a minor crash… and realized I just rear-ended the guy ahead of me. FUCK. Now I was going to have to tell people I got in a car accident because I wanted to see a homeless guy’s penis. We pulled over and I ran out repeating, “Oh god I’m so sorry I’m so sorry the homeless guy had his hand in his pants I’m sorry I thought he was going for his thingy, I’m sorry!”. Luckily, the guy assessed there was no damage, stated, “That’s what bumpers are for” and gave me a hug. I wanted to nominate him for Time’s Person of the Year award and bear all his children.

Finally, I went for a run after I stormed out on Boyfriend because I felt self-conscious about what I looked like and blamed it on him (moral of this story: I act like a menopausal baby when dealing with relationship problems). So, I ran around the track by my house to blow off some steam and improve my self-image when these guys started staring at my butt, prompting me to think, “Aw shucks, they like my buttocks. Maybe I’m not an ugly she-hulk after all. Self-confidence! Woman power! I love my body!” My thoughts were interrupted by something hitting the back of my leg. I reached around and felt some sort of material hanging out of my shorts. When I pulled it out and held it in front of me, I was face-to-face with a pair of dirty underwear. Apparently, when I had grabbed my running shorts out of the laundry, dirty underwear came along as a bonus and had been the object of the oglers at the track for the past ten minutes. Mortified, I grabbed it and stuffed it into the front of my running shorts, which only made matters worse. This is the Universe telling me no matter what I do, people will always stare at my butt for reasons other than “That’s a cute butt.” I NEVER WIN.

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My First Trip to The Gynecologist

I successfully prolonged going to the gynecologist until I turned 21. I would’ve waited longer but my birth control made me nauseous and apparently to get a new brand you had to see the gynecologist. Fairly confident that my sister’s cries of warning were exaggerated, I coolly booked an appointment at my University’s health center. When I got there, Dr. T, a kind elderly woman, greeted me and I thought to myself how much of wuss my sister was. This wasn’t bad at all. Then Dr. T asked me to take off all my clothes. “All of them?” I was kind of hoping you only had to take off your pants and underwear. “Yes, all of them. Well, you don’t have to take off your socks.” She gave me time to undress and put on the gown that successfully covers everythi—oh wait, it covers nothing. I decided to keep my socks on because I didn’t want to get completely naked, which, looking back, was even weirder to be entirely naked with the exception of socks.

I mounted the chair, put my feet in the stirrups, and instantly felt vulnerable. Here I was, naked (except for socks) in front of a complete stranger who was about to get up close and personal with my vagina. “Okay, go ahead and open your legs.” I parted my knees an inch. “A little more.” I opened them another centimeter. Dr. T grabbed my knees and had to pry them apart as I fought to keep my legs closed and my vagina protected. Finally, Dr. T managed to force my legs open and all I could think about was why I didn’t take off my goddamn socks. Also, I probably should have done a better job shaving. With an optimal view of my entire vajajay, Dr. T snapped on the gloves. “Are you sexually active?” I turned red. “Like, right now? Because I’m not now, but I have been.” “So you’re sad and alone?” She didn’t say that. But she might as well have. “Yes. Sad and alone. Just masturbation for this one.” (When I returned three months later and she asked the same question, I smugly answered, “Why yes, this v is getting some d.” Well, not in those exact words. But you get the point.) Dr. T then pulled out a tray of instruments that looked like torture devices from The Pit of Despair. She must have seen the look of absolute horror on my face because she reassured me, “I’m going to walk you through this, okay?” She then proceeded to describe each instrument and its purpose for my vagina in great detail. Unfortunately, I’m not a fainter, so I was unbearably conscious for the whole spiel and everything that came after.

First, these plastic tong-like things were shoved up in my hoo-ha and cranked open until I wanted to give up all of America’s secrets. After that came more pain and suffering. I’m not quite sure what she was doing down there because I was busy staring at the ceiling questioning my life decisions. All I know is her fingers got real deep. Like, I’m not even sure if that was necessary or she was just curious to see how far she could get up there, as if the farther she ventured the more likely it was for her to find Narnia. Mercifully, she finally finished (and while she claims that only lasted two minutes and thirty seconds, I beg to differ). She left the room to allow me to get changed and, slightly shaking, I sat paralyzed in the chair for three minutes, afraid that if I stood up everything would just fall out through my vagina. When I eventually got up, it felt as if someone had stuck a hand mixer in my uterus and tried to make scrambled eggs. Which, in a way, someone did. I limped the rest of the way home and called my sister to apologize for ever making fun of her intolerance to pain.

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I Thought I Lost My Virginity Three Weeks Before I Actually Did

By the time I got to college, I was super ready to lose my virginity. I’m not saying I was getting drunk and passing by the frats propositioning myself. Mostly because I can’t drink alcohol without getting nauseas and I don’t own any sexy clothes. Otherwise I totally would have. Basically, I was sick of being a virgin and fake laughing at sex jokes because I had no idea what they were referring to. (My mom would make us do this thing where if we laughed at a sex joke she would demand, “Explain it to me” to see if we really understood the joke. I could never explain it).

So, when I started dating a couple months into freshman year, I was hormonal, horny, and ready to lose it. While the stereotype may be that guys have sex on the brain and girls are coy, I had the opposite experience. My boyfriend (we’ll call him Todd. Todd seems like a nice name) had never had sex before either, but his religious background gave him all that good ol’ fashioned Christian guilt. Since I grew up with absolutely zero religious guidance, I was like, “C’mon, let’s do this thing.” (This post just inadvertently became fuel for the argument of bringing your kids to church). At one point during a make-out/dry hump/awkward rubbing session, my hand started to take things to the next level when Todd stopped me. He looked right into my eyes and asked, “Wait. Do you love me?” In this moment, I knew my answer would dictate what would happen next, so… I lied. I looked right into his eyes and said, “Of course I love you”, and the next thing you know I’m down to my underwear. And that’s how I first said “I love you.” To get into someone’s pants. Yes, I know I’m terrible. I was taking advantage of poor Todd and didn’t stop to think about the consequences. Well, his consequences. I was perfectly fine with my sexual choices, but Todd was apparently experiencing moral crises almost nightly. Hell’s gonna be great, you guys.

A couple months later we finally did the deed. Or I thought we did. I really wasn’t sure. We were both naked. And our, you know, private parts were touching and definitely moving against each other. It was like watching two dogs meet at a park, running in circles and sniffing each other’s butts and all that jazz. You’re probably laughing at my ignorance of what sex should be, but how the hell was I supposed to know what it should feel like?! Neither of us had done it before and porn can only teach so much. So we did this non-penetration thing for a couple weeks, and neither of us really talked about it but there was definitely a sense that something wasn’t quite right. And then, totally by accident, it happened. And I instantly knew. Because that shit hurt. (This is coming from the girl who cried the first time she put a tampon in). I guess the rest is history. Weirdly, I don’t regret anything. There’s a lot of talk about “saving yourself for the right person”, and sure, that may work for some people, but I just wanted to do it. And, for better or worse (definitely worse, in Todd’s case), I got what I wanted. I’m going to be a horrible mother. But at least I understand sex jokes now!

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The Weird Hair Growing Out of My Face

The other day, Boyfriend and I were in line for churros when he inspected my right cheek and said, “You have a weird hair.” Imagine you’re a girl with insecurities, doubts, fears, and the conviction that you’re terrible at being a girl because you only shave, like, once every two weeks and every morning you forget that brushing hair is something you have to do. Okay, now picture that you just heard from your boyfriend, the one who’s supposed to be physically attracted to you and all that crap, “There is something weird growing out of your face”. I think we can all agree that you immediately want to die. You want to crawl into a hole and never, ever, ever see the sun again. But, there were no holes to crawl into and die in at the churro stand, so I was left to awkwardly avoid Boyfriend (which was difficult since we drove there together) while trying to make sure he was always on my left.

As soon as I got to a mirror, I searched for the hair. Sure enough, there it was, long, black, and growing out of the side of my face like goddamn pioneer. It looked like a freaking pube was protruding from face. It was on one of those spots on your body that you would never think to look at unless someone pointed it out to you. I started thinking about all the things this hair had witnessed while I was living my life stupidly thinking there were no weird hairs growing out of my face. It was long (like an inch? Inch and a half?) which meant it’d been there for a while. Oh god, this hair was there on all my first dates, accompanying us to the restaurant like an eager third wheel. It was there when I got my hair cut, glaring my hairdresser in the eyes as she shampooed me. It’s been there for every class, every game of Settlers of Catan, every dry hump on a stranger’s couch (I have actually never dry humped on a stranger’s couch. I just wanted to make my life sound more exciting). How many times had I assumed people were listening to me talk when in fact they were just staring at this hair and wondering why I had no hygiene? How many times?! My life flashed before my eyes as I stared into the black soul of the hair on the side of my face. As I pulled out the tweezers, it stood strong, accepting its fate nobly. Then I plucked it and it went to hair heaven. Now I’m paranoid there are weird hairs growing elsewhere on my body in all the nooks and crannies too difficult for me to find. I need a best girl friend. Or a hand mirror. Either will work.

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