If  men could menstruate … clearly, menstruation would become an enviable, boast-worthy, masculine event: Men would brag about how long and how much. … Sanitary supplies would be federally funded and free. Of course, some men would still pay for the prestige of such commercial brands as Paul Newman Tampons, Muhammad Ali’s Rope-a-Dope Pads, John Wayne Maxi Pads, and Joe Namath Jock Shields — “For Those Light Bachelor Days.”

Gloria Steinem 

 

 

IF men could menstruate, I wouldn’t have to frickin’ BEG my goddam gynecologist for a total hysterectomy.  

He’d have KNOWN, instinctively, to just go ahead and yank my plumbing from my gaping C-sectioned abdomen after he extracted the TWO-FOOT-LONG infant from my womb seven years ago.

Perhaps, IF men could menstruate, Dr. Doogie Houser would have — if not empathy — surely, SYMPATHY, for the fact that I SUFFER from retrograde menstruation and Stage IV endometriosis.  

Perhaps, IF every month, in addition to experiencing a two-week crimson tide, Dr. Doogie ALSO had menstrual waste forced back up through his fallopian tubes to spill out into his abdominal cavity, he would give me the radical overhaul for which I beg.

Perhaps, IF Dr. Doogie had to endure just one ‘Butt-Kink’, as I fondly call it, wherein all of that menstrual waste material  adhering to his intestines and sphincter feel as if someone has yanked them UP and held TAUT for a minute or two — perhaps, THEN, (after he is able to catch his breath and let every muscle in his very body relax) — THEN —  he GLADLY would extract my female parts.

Instead, even before I can finish my HYSTER-ical plea, he is already shaking his head, saying, “No.  No.  No.  You’re too young.”

 

Why is it men are all-too happy to stuff shit IN to your nether regions,

but they never wanna take anything OUT?

 

My only consolation:  I think Dr. Doogie’s a Buddhist.  I pray he comes back as a WOMAN.  And then to another man.

Until then, I’m stuck with another 15-20 years of menstruation.

And that’s another thing that pisses me off:  Shouldn’t it be ‘WOMENstruation’? 

For crissake, even on that, WE get the GORY and THEY get the GLORY? 

 

Recently, my pre-pubescent daughter asked me, “Mommy, if you had THREE WISHES, what would they be?”

 

Without hesitation, I fired off:

#1  That every man in the world would POOF! into a woman.

#2  That I would become the HEARTLESS BITCH GYNECOLOGIST to those new women.

 #3 That Sir James Dyson would invent an affordable VagiVac so all the REAL WOMEN of the world could frickin’ suck out their own uteri in the comfort of their own homes whenever they damn-well feel like it. 

 

 

 

 

 

Okay, well, maybe those three wishes were what I said in my head.  Maybe I said ‘world peace’ to m’kid.  Maybe.  (I hope.)

 

But don’t get me wrong.  I didn’t refrain from blurting out my REAL three wishes because I didn’t want to curse in front of the kid.

I just wanted to PROTECT her from THE PERIOD — period.   

I want to protect her from THE CURSE and all of its nasty, negative effects, in general.   I want to protect her from the visceral urge to slice up every male living thing on the face of the earth every 28 days.

 

How I DREAD my babygirl’s imminent entrance to womanhood!  How my heart breaks at the thought of the loss of her happy, innocent, worry- and pain-free childhood.   How sorry I am that she is a SHE; how sorry I am that she must heft the burden of being female.  

 

Now, don’t get me wrong; I don’t necessarily hate womanhood.  On the contrary, I know I was made a woman because women are the stronger of the sexes; I don’t care what anybody thinks or says.  Hell, if The Big Guy thought for a millisecond that MEN could handle childbirth and MENses, He’d’ve given the Grand Prize to THEM.   I’m just pissed that guys have all the fun and get all the breaks — in every way, shape and form. 

And don’t even try to sell me that SHIT about how men are the ones who have to bring home the bacon and support a family, ’cause I’m not buyin’. 

 

 

BULLSHIT.

  

  

Most women I know hold down full-time careers AND do ALL 1) childcare  2) housework  3) shopping  4) cooking  5) bill-paying  6) yardwork  7)  help with homework  8) taxiing kids to/from activities for which MOM arranged.  (+ MUCH more) 

  

   

  

  

THIS?

 

 

 

 

 

THIS is what my daughters have to look forward to in their lives?

 

 

 It’s not bad enough that my daughter must ENDURE the curse of THE CURSE?

 

 

I want my girls to grow up to be STRONG WOMEN.  I want them to know that they can handle ANYTHING that life throws their way.  Unfortunately, that monthly visit from Aunt Flo is the one thing that many women, strong or not, simply CANNOT escape.   Every month, women are PLAGUED with debilitating cramps, bloating, demon-channeling capabilities and LEAKAGE.  

Included in my nightly prayers (and, yes, The Viv fuckin’ PRAYS) are the makers of Midol and 800mg Motrin.   They, at least, can get me through the bloats and cramps and the feeling that my uterus is gonna tear through m’taint and hit the floor.

Am I to believe that we can build Great Walls and pyramids, put men (why, of course) on the moon, store 5,000 songs on a device no bigger that a pinky, sew without thread, live with artificial hearts, balloon boobs to a realistic trip-G, grow new hair, brace for perfect, pearly teeth and block sweat from staining our pits — but we can’t seem to figure out a better way to stanch the red  flood than to shove a wad of cotton up the HOOHAW?

 

 

 

REALLY?

 

 

THERE’S GOTTA BE A BETTER WAY FOR WOMEN TO CONQUER THE CURSE!

  

  

IF men could menstruate, 

we’d’ve had a curse-cure 

LONG AGO. 

 

 

 

 

How do they keep hemophiliacs from leaking to death?

 

Why can’t we just use THAT? 

 

 

Or, how ’bout a giant styptic pencil? 

 

 

 

 

IF men were just a wee bit quicker on the uptake, they’d realize that the quicker they cure the curse, the quicker they get 12 extra BONUS weeks to hound us for sex.

 

 

Now that I’ve purchased a few ‘bralets’ and some of that amazing anti-perspirant for my blossoming nine-year-old babe, my next purchases, no doubt, will be Pre-Teen Midol and a box of maxi pads (with WINGS! of course).       

 

How I cringe at the memory of my middle school maxi pad days.  

Ladies, is there anything more disgusting than having to run the mile in PE with a freakin’ saturated king-sized pillow between your legs?

 

THE HORROR!  

 

 

True, pads have come a long way in terms of size and absorbancy since the early 80s, thank Gawd, but I feel so sorry for the young girls who have to wear them.  Poor things.  But, then again, what choice do they really have?   TAMPONS?  For elementary schoolers?  Ugh.   

 

I hopped online in search of  SOMETHING — ANYTHING — better than pads and tampons for my babygirl — must she REALLY ride the cotton pony all her life?

 

As it turns out, the pad and the tampon really ARE the best out there.   

 

 

I just can’t imagine trying to instruct my child in the proper folding technique, let alone the INSERTION and REMOVAL, of the DIVA CUP, and I would rather have her swallow a box of DAMP RID than tell her that she should shove a goddam SEA SPONGE up her little ‘tookie’.

 

The DIVA CUP

 

  

 

 

The Jam Sponge 

 

“You simply squash it into your vagina and it soaks up the blood.” 

(A shoe-in for the The Cannes Lions International Advertising Festival.)

 

 

No Way in HELL.

  

  

  

  

So, for now,

until Sir Dyson’s

VAGIVAC

hits Wal-Mart shelves,

pads it is.

 

 

  

  

I tore apart my basement looking for THE BIBLE of Pre-Pubescent Girls — Are You There God?  It’s Me, Margaret. 

Since the kid’s got booblets, I suppose it’s time for her to read it.  It got me through that God-awful stage.   It sure as hell made me happy that the ‘Teeange Softies’ I had to wear didn’t require a belt, though.  At least my Kotex had tape strips to adhere to my Days of the Week undergutchies.

Another thing I appreciated about Blume’s book was the fact that the main character’s mother didn’t really make a major ordeal and alert the presses when her daughter gets her period.   She sniffles a bit, and says, “My God!  You’ve really got it.  My little girl!”   And then she goes to get the ‘equipment’ in the other room.  No big whoop.

My own mother wept with pride at my first flow.  She couldn’t stop hugging me and kissing me and telling me how proud of me she was (as if I had anything to do with it).   And then at the dinner table that night, she beamed and proudly announced, “Daddy, our baby girl got her period today!  She’s not a little girl anymore!   Now she’s becoming a young WOMAN!”   I thought my younger brother was gonna puke.  My dad, God bless’im, without really making eye contact, mumbled something like, “Did ya, honey?  Well, say now… how ’bout that?   Do ya feel all grown up now?”  (No, Dad, not really.  Actually, I feel like total CRAP.  And now, lucky me, I get to feel like this once a month?  Me?  I feel like a buck-fi’ty.  Yippee.)  

 I know a woman whose family has a Menstruation Tradition, for crissake.  When one of their girls gets stricken, one of the other women of the family — NOT the mother, though  — presents the child with a fuckin’ TIARA to celebrate her induction into the Sisterhood of Stained Pants.   Evidently, it’s this big family secret, and no one else is allowed to see your tiara.  When the girl gets her period every month, and she is feeling like a heifer in heat, she is to go to her room, place the tiara atop her head, and look in the mirror and admire the beauty, the regality of being a woman.   I guess the crown is supposed to make her feel better about the monthly sloughing of the lining of her uterus and cellular debris and the fact that she secretly wants to take a crucifix to her vagina a la Regan to take her mind off the pain.

I can say with the fiercest conviction that there willl be no Catamenia Crown for my kid. 

There will be no celebration, no ‘Welcome to Womanhood’ festivities, no ’embrace-and-honor-your-sacred-feminine’ speech — no way, no how.

A FUNERAL to mourn my baby’s lost childhood, maybe.  But menses, my friends, is no cause for celebration.  (unless you’ve been worried about that one-night stand for the last three weeks, that is)

No; no majestic tiara for my little girl.  

 

 

 

I’d rather say

‘Welcome to 40 Frickin’ Years of Abject Agony’

with a heating pad,

a Motrin I.V.,

 a Symphony bar

and a 2-lb. bag o’ chips.  

 

That’s more helpful that a friggin’ tiara, I guarantee it.