Monster Mammaries, Tampons with Eyes, and A Giant Mattress Between My Legs

I am currently enduring my monthly time of misery.

My male followers may find the following rant disturbing, so I am warning you now–LOOK AWAY!

You’re still here.  You must have the male trait of selective hearing–or in this case, selective reading.  I am not merely nagging you for the sake of nagging you, despite of what you may think.  Seriously, LOOK AWAY.  Join us again when we get down to the picture of the blonde-haired man.  This is for your own good.

Now that it’s just me and the girls, I feel that I can indulge in a much-needed whinefest.  Mm.  Wine.  Maybe I’ll have a winefest with my whinefest.  Okay, I’m back.  Why is it that I am forced to nearly bleed to death every three weeks?  Seriously, exactly 21 days after my misery ends, a new misery begins.

And I have been waiting 9 months to see a gynaecologist.  Not a specific, highly sought after, specialist.  Just any gynaecologist will do.  A warning to my American friends–this is one of the problems with public health care.  It’s free, but it’s very elusive.

According to blood tests, I am anaemic.  Well, duh?  I’m bleeding from my crotch.  Think about it–what a strange concept–bleeding profusely from one’s nether-regions.  And they say women are the weaker sex?  I say, give a man a menstrual cramp and he will die.  Seriously, he will beg for mercy, curl up in a ball, and die.  Imagine if he actually bled from his pecker and had to spend 3-5 days with a mattress between his legs.

All it takes is the mere mention of the words “period” or “menstruation” and they run away screaming.  Wimps.

    See, they haven’t got a clue.

    Seriously…”Sunday, Bloody Sunday?” No clue.

   I saved the best for last.  Even the male robots are clueless.

Let’s face it.  We women do derive a certain amount of pleasure from the discomfort that this subject gives them.  And we do deserve all the pleasure we can get.  We’ve earned it.  And we’ve got the toilet paper-shrouded bundles of winged feminine napkins to prove it.

1. Like many women, my boobs get really sore right before my period.  Thank God, I don’t own “the largest natural breasts in the world” like New Yorker, Annie Hawkins (a.k.a. Norma Stitz.  Hm.  I wonder why she has an alias?  Is it just coincidence that Stitz rhymes with tits? OMG.  I just got it…’normous tits.)

According to the Guinness World Records people, she has an “around-chest-over-nipple” measurement (yes, it actually says that) of 70 inches.  Holy crap!  That’s almost 6 feet!  That’s a lot of chest.

God help her if her boobs ache before her period.  That’s a lot of ache.

2)  Thank you Dr. White.  Finally, a man who “gets” us.  I remember the old-style tampons–talk about forcing a square into a round hole.

While I usually appreciate the anthropomorphizing of all inanimate objects, as a menstruating woman, I want to trample the smiling tampon to death.  What’s he got to smile about?  Does he even know what he is?

3)  Martha Stewart bugs me.  Seriously, who needs to do folk art stencilling on  their driveway?  It turns out that Martha is not the only one with WAY too much time on their hands.

Meet the home-made maxi-pad lady and her floral take on Kotex.  She makes pretty pads to bleed on, then scrub and dry, and bleed on again.  Her periods are obviously much more “genteel” than mine.

This thing looks way too much like a stuffed animal that has lost its eyes.  I simply could not, in good conscience, use it for its intended purpose.

I’ll be back soon with a man-friendly edition.

Photo Credits:  tampons with eyes (