Finally finished the paper. I changed the topic to discuss dystopias. Fighting Wally Disney was just too innundating. And also, I had this weird feeling that if I say anything bad about the Mouse, a bunch of large men carrying violin cases will knock on my door to have a serious discussion about Chubby Tink.
Also I know this sounds horrible, but I’m really glad that Christmas is over so that I can start shopping for me again.
Also, every year there seems to be a new thing with lawn decorations. A couple of years ago, it was white wicker deer. Then it was lighted white deer. Then lighted white deer that move their heads slowly, reminding me eerily of some story that had topiary animals in a garden which moved on their own. Gah, those moving deer give me the creeps. Then came the spiral white trees last year and now this year, it is inflatable Christmas characters made from parachute material. I’ve seen many Santas, a few Grinches, a snowman or two and one very frightening yellow-eyed Elf.
I’m not a fan of blow up anything, particularly not these parachute material things. It’s reminiscent of a car lot, only in this case you inevitably get to chose from either a teal Saturn with a dolphin air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror and a window decal declaring that the owner likes ‘bad ass toys’ or a 1994 Astrovan with rust around the wheel wells and a trove of vintage French fries under the seat.
Apparently there is some inflation mechanism that keeps these things going, as I only ever see them in one of two states: fully turgid or completely deflated, an empty bag of Christmas. I’m starting to suspect some kind of yuletide chupacabra is on the loose, sucking all the joy out of the paraphernalia. Perhaps the Bumble was laid off due to serious cutbacks, as is often the case with big business, and is back on his habit of venison and holiday icons. Perhaps it was destroyed by herds of roaming prelit wicker deer.
I’m bummed that I never get to see one in the process of deflation. I think it would be one of the best things ever. Even so, I love the metaphor. It’s that holiday buzzkill that everyone needs to get them back on track for the serious business that is January.
Speaking of deflating, my left leg is still only about fifty percent operational. It starts to swell if I stand too long or walk too much, although I don’t really notice it until I’m standing there and then realize that I can only bend my leg about five inches, as the skin is too taut over the bulbous whatever-it-is-in-my-knee. Thus, I’ve become obsessed with stretching my legs, bending my knee, completely dedicated to preventing it from happening again. Also, I keep bending at my waist, trying to get my head closer and closer to the floor. I’ve always been able to touch the floor with my knees locked, but now I can get my palms comfortably flat on the floor. I realize that this is not that big of a deal, but in Wisconsin, where people are stiff and unyielding and think yoga is a new product by Dannon, it’s pretty impressive stuff. My sister and mother can’t do it. My new goal is to touch my nose to my calf, but I have a feeling that in order to do so, my liver will be shoved up into my throat and part of me is very skeptical that one should ever know what their own liver tastes like.
If you’re squicky, get off the ride right now, because I’m going to talk about the woman time, ok?
I’m a pad girl. I just don’t like tampons. Oh, I’ll wear them, but I won’t like it. I think it offends the natural order of things, what you have to do with a tampon. I mean, if it’s not fun, then I don’t want to have anything to do with it, you know? Certainly, I’m no fan of the alternatives, but with me, the pad is the least of all evils (of course, I still do wish that you could go to some spa or something and have a Swedish woman named Helga push on your abdomen and have everything expunged with in a single afternoon, after which you can retire to the lounge for lots of iron-rich steak and also Cosmopolitans because enough vodka and everything is made better.)
As are most women, I’m very brand loyal to my Always feminine protection. Always have used them, always will. I like the Dri Weave, I think. Also, they are the most expensive. As my mother would happily point out, I find a way to be snobby even about menstrual pads.
The wings, however, are a side bonus. They’re kind of a pain in the ass, those wings. They seem to do their job of keeping the damn thing in place, so I put up with the extra putzing around with the additional adhesive strip and all is well.
Nothing, but nothing can ever be simple. There are many different types of Always pads. Not just the panty liners, the maxi and the overnighter-almost-adult-diaper thing. No. There’s a maxi pad, there’s an ultra-thin, there’s ultra-long, there’s regular super thin no wings, there’s slender, there’s plus size and lest they be insensitive to those who want to wear pads but do not want to see the after effects, they also come in black.
That’s not what has irritated me.
A while back, they started coding the Always feminine protection with symbols so that you wouldn’t forget the type you used. The symbols were a heart, a club, a diamond and a spade. Like playing cards. Let’s pretend that instead of spewing the very stuff life is made of, we’re sitting around playing a nice round of bridge. And don’t forget, it’s not a maxi-pad, it’s a bird! It gives you wings to celebrate the magical time of womanhood! Much like that hairy lady told you in fifth grade when they rounded up all of the girls and brought them into a room to watch a film strip about a flower and showed you to use a maxipad with a belt, even though most women hadn’t used belts in the last fifteen years. Wings! Fly away, little butterfly! But don’t make a mess!
A symbol. Because we have our periods, you see, and therefore we are far too stupid to remember what will keep us from fouling up our white tennis skirts at the big country club picnic. No. Remember your symbol for you have a working uterus and cannot think for yourself, Always told us. Remember your symbol! It said it right on the package, in pink script letters. It was urgent–like it was important. My god, your symbol! It was everywhere. It was even printed on the adhesive strips, like it was a box of Lucky Charms or something.
My symbol was a spade. The spade was on the pads that offered you the most protection. It was hefty, that spade. It meant business. Those girls who were hearts, they were petite little things who thought cramps were a tiny pinch and then nothing, so they would go back to training for the Olympic gymnast team. The club girls didn’t understand what the fuss was about and just went back to their riding lessons and practicing their dressage. And the diamonds were too busy studying Nietzsche and not wearing makeup. But we few, we crampy few, we band of spades. We were popping Advils like Pez and believing Clearisil when it said that it was ‘flesh toned’ as we’d walk down the hall, our cords make Zirh Zirh Zirh noises, while we held our books close to our boobs, which were always spilling out of the top of our bras, making a delightful four-breast appearance under our shaker sweaters. We spade girls walk up and down stairs with the careful grace of Audrey Hepburn, lest we lose control of our abdominal muscles. We spade girls know the terror in a sneeze. We spade girls look at Midol commercials and laugh and laugh and laugh. Yup. A spade. You can’t miss a spade girl.
They labeled me. Even though I didn’t want it, Always decided that they knew what was good for me better than I knew myself, and unless I wanted to defect to Kotex and have unfortunate accidents for the rest of my days, I had to suck it up and take my place in the ovulating ranks.
So obviously, it worked, because I remember my damn symbol. Not that I ever cared. Not that I ever TRUSTED the damn symbol in the first place, choosing instead of read the comforting words of Ultra-Thin Maxi with Wings with my own eyes. But still, that nugget remains in my brain.
They stopped putting symbols on the Always packages.
Someone figured out that women are not two-years-old. I mean, it’s a good thing, because it was insulting, just like the blue liquid they use on the commercials to demonstrate absorbancy is insulting. But now I’m stuck with this bit of trivia in my brain. I’m a spade. Not a clover, not a blue diamond, not a purple horseshoe. I’m certain that when my Alzheimer’s Disease proceeds to the point where I can’t remember the names of my friends and family, I will still remember my damn symbol on the maxi-pads-that-want-to-pretend-they-are-birds. They should just call it Always Until We Don’t Feel Like It Anymore.
Proof: You can’t trust anyone. Fuckers.
Yeah, I’m a touch cranky.
The comments section wants to tell you about this one time? In my vagina?
