I know that everyone everywhere has probably read about this, but the line “We’ve been bleaching lots of Texan winkers.” needs to be part of an award-winning poem.
Esteban’s going to his annual Men/Dork Camping Weekend. I’m somewhat offended by the insistence of Men’s Camping Weekend (No GURLZ ALOUD!) because until the rest of the boys in our gang started finding mates, every damn camping weekend was Men Plus Weet camping weekend and no one had a problem with that. Until the screechy fun-bashing Carrie Nations started ruining everyone’s fun and they had to ban an entire GENDER.
Not that I want to go camping, mind you. I just object on principle. I suspect some of the guys whist back to the good old days as well, because my campfire cooking skills are pretty damned impressive.
However, this does not keep Esteban from wanting help with camping-related preparations. He asked if I wanted to go grocery shopping with him and mark things off his list.
A list. He’s got a list. Grocery shopping is such a novelty for him that he has to make a list. So damned cute.
I however, am well entrenched in my monthly grumpy time, and yesterday was the prime awful gutwrenching twisty turny penitence for every woman sin since Eve decided she liked sex day. Fuck me, sometimes I hate being a girl. Breasts, they are great, but seriously, the cramps? Where exactly does that help evolution?
Ok, I’m going to rant for a bit about menstruation. For three paragraphs. Or five, maybe, if you want to be safe.
The weird thing is that I know that I’m not a wimp. Hell, I may cry at unexpected times, like when someone else starts crying or when I see a commercial for Special Olympics, but certainly I can deal with pain. And this every month thing? I’ve had twenty years of this shit. One would think I would have gotten used to it by now. But no. No. I’d have to imagine that the whole of womanhood isn’t experiencing her princess time and smiling while the herd of elephants wearing spiked heels are doing the samba in her midsection. I mean, sure I know there are women out there who are suffering. Plain Jane, and her pelvic abnormality with the monthly anemia come to mind. Evany too. From reading about Evany’s unnatural girly effluvia, I know that I am not alone in the complete and utter cyclic freakshow. But then there’s the rest of you, totally functioning women who don’t even talk about how they live in fear of an unbraced SNEEZE for five days, worrying that entire villages and also a very cute pair of boy panties will be lost to the surging tempest that is sure to follow. It’s you that I don’t understand. The people for whom pantyliners were invented.
I ate 18 Advil yesterday. I counted. Shut up about the recommended dose, by the way, as I got permission to take that much when I dislocated my shoulder, popped it back in and continued to SERVE THE FUCKING VOLLEYBALL for another three games. See above re: can deal with pain. And while I’m not saying that my fucking uterus doing whatever the hell it does when it’s cramping is worse than an actual arm being torn from its shoulder socket, relatively, if someone were trying to dislocate that shoulder a little tiny bit for four days and that is exactly what it is like. Only in your gut, so that every time you try to stand up or cough or sneeze or anything, it’s complete agony. Plus with blood. Hooray!
Anyway, on the two most horrific days, I lay low, eat steak on the first day to sate my incredible craving for protein, then pretty much nothing substantial for the next few days because a full stomach or anything having to do with digestion will set off a tirade of complaints from my abdomen. Also, I sleep. A lot. And fret. And apparently have mood swings.
So when I agreed to go to the store with Esteban, I really didn’t want to go. I couldn’t even really walk without twinges of discomfort in my abdomen, so I end up walking in a painful waddle that you might recognize if you’ve ever seen a woman in the throes of back labor pacing in the hospital. (Which is, by the way, another reason that I never want to get pregnant, and don’t any of you parents pipe up and tell me that your cramps got better after you bore fruit because I am not buying that brand of crazy talk today. The cramps are just in another form, if anything. One with jam hands and a penchant for Spongebob) So yeah, anyway, the Where’s My Epidural waddle is WAY sexy, let me tell you. But whatever. He wanted to spend time with me, and my god, what kind of mean person would I have to be to say no to that? Especially since with all of the collected stupidity at the Men’s Camping Weekend, there’s a very good chance that I’ll never see him again.
That wasn’t man bashing, by the way. That was the experience of having camped with these boys in the past. They once tried to cook baked potatoes by squirting them with lighter fluid. Now, however, they all have expensive and dangerous toys. And midlife crises, apparently.
So I was waddling into the grocery store without complaint, and he apologized for making me feel like I had to come along. I assured him that I was fine, just not interested in bending over for any reason. He promised that he would carry the groceries and push the cart (and in my mind, the evil hormonal voice of Zoul said ‘You’re damned right you’re going to carry the groceries.’) and I said it was no problem but then said ‘I may have to buy a pack of Oreos though.’ Because the uterus sits up and begs for Oreos.
Esteban regarded the rack of cookies and said ‘Absolutely. I may have to get a pack for camping too.’
I took my regular pack and then watched as he also grabbed the regular Oreos. ‘Are you sure you don’t want the Double Stuffed ones, baby?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘The double stuffs are too much. They need to have&AO8AvwC9AO8AvwC9-
We both looked at each other and said in unison ‘One Point Five Stuffed Oreos.’
Exactly. EXACTLY.
Marital zen. It doesn’t happen that often, but man, when it does, it is totally worth it.
