In Which Steff Had The Worst Birthday Ever

The Age Fairy brought me another birthday. Don’t worry, I won’t spend it all in one place.

I got up this morning and I was at least 2.76% wiser. That’s pretty cool. Take what you can get in a recession, eh?

All I got for my birthday, really, is this curious sense of “What now?” that comes with the next morning when you’re staring at the new year ahead of you.

Last year, I didn’t have that. Last year, I was a little preoccupied, so this year’s feeling phenomenal in comparison.

As much as this is probably one of the most embarrassing stories I’ll ever write, it’s also a great example of why reflecting works so great sometimes to put some perspective on who you are and where you are in life. See, last year, I was not in my Happy Birthday Place. I wasn’t even in my Remotely Satisfied Birthday Place.

Oh, god. I so don’t want to share this story, but I secretly know EVERYONE has had one of those Shitty Birthdays that just makes you loathe Hallmark and the Birthday Machine, and wanna haul up and hit anyone who goes “Hey, what’d ya do for your birthday?!”

Because last year was one of those years where I really didn’t want anyone to know what I did for my birthday.

Because it was The Birthday of The Horrific Yeast Infection. MEN, don’t worry, no details will be shared about THAT. Keep reading, it’s fine. No, this is the comedy of errors that ensued when I attempted a “natural” remedy. Which, as it turns out, there was fuckin’ nothin’ natural about.

What you need to know is, I’d had about six months of chronic yeast infections last year, sigh, that no one could figure out. Haven’t had any in MONTHS, so I don’t know what the hell happened, but around my 35th birthday I had gotten to the point where I was either going to go on a rampage killing everyone I met, OR I was going to try everything I possibly could to get rid of the problem.

Coming to the end of the list of remedies, I had one suggested by a reader, which I then researched on the web — and which filled me with a great deal of unease.

The process? A clove of garlic is peeled, wrapped in cheesecloth, a string tied around to close it, and long enough for, um, retraction, and then this is shoved up one’s twat overnight.

So, the night before my birthday, I’m all teary and angry, thinking how it’s bad enough I have to get older, but to get older while feeling all festery and yeasty like THAT? The fucking HORROR. Insult, meet injury.

It was time, I decided, for extreme action.

This was a case for garlic.

So, I did it. Late that night, the night before I’d turn 35, I shoved the garlic up where the sun’s never gonna shine, and laid me down to sleep. It burned. It was awkward. I was aware that it — and that godawful cheesecloth — was UP there. I eventually did the fitful get-up-stretch-go-potty thing in the middle of the night, being careful of the Invading Garlic-String-Thingie’s positioning and such, which I could feel seemed to still be snugly in place.

I finally got three or four good hours sleep, got up the next morning, and went to remove the offending garlic. The string was gone. What? I squished my legs together, back and forth. Yup, something was still up there. Things felt swollen and tight. Uh-oh. Where’s the fucking string?

Next thing you know, I’m on my bed, looking both on it, and in me, to find this goddamned piece of string-tied garlic.

And finding nothing. Something clearly still felt like it was inside me, and yet… I was finding NOTHING.

I went to work, still alarmed. Put on a nice smiley-face, since I was supposed to be the Happy-Happy Birthday-Girl. Secretly, I’m the “Where the FUCK did I put my garlic?” Girl.

Unfortunately, my job involves sitting for about eight hours. During which my poor twat made it evident it was not a happy thing. Had to be the garlic, I surmised.

Just barely, I survived my workday. Then it was off to my best friend’s for the decadent hamburger dinner we had planned. I got to GayBoy’s (@Mr_Tits_Pervert on Twitter) and, given the state of my twat, was a right cunt from the get-go. After 15 years of friendship, we know how to shut down each other’s bullshit in a hurry, and he did exactly that, even if it was my birthday.

All of a sudden, I burst into tears — “I lost my garlic! I can’t find the string.”

“What?”

So I had to explain, in detail, the problem and what I was trying to accomplish, and how. Basically, I lost cheesecloth-wrapped garlic and a 10″ piece of string up my twat. Not your everyday problem, you know.

Then he cracks up, just breaks into hysterics, while trying to look sympathetic, because I’ve carried on — “…And now I think I have to go to a clinic tomorrow and get them to look and see if… and how do you say, “Oh, I lost my garlic” to some cute young stuck-in-a-clinic doctor, when you just KNOW it’s YOU they’re gonna be talking about around the watercooler today. ‘Hey, did you hear about Garlic Cheesecloth Girl? ON HER BIRTHDAY?’ Oh, this is the worst birthday ever–“

And that’s when he shoved alcohol in my face.

Thank god, things were better in the morning. Apparently my vaginal canal had just been swollen and I’d probably peed the garlic out only 3 hours after it was inserted. Ironically nothing was actually wrong with me when I’d had the worst Monday Birthday ever.

And 2 days later? I blew out my back, spent the next 9 months rehabbing. All in all, turning 35 pretty much sucked sweaty donkey balls.

Turning 36, however, kicks ass. This time, my garlic was on my food.

Which, as it turns out, is how I prefer it.

Happy Birthday to me, indeed.

*Unless you want to believe all the “economic indicators” conveniently growing just before the onslaught of the evil Christmas retail season. Me, I’m curiously amused by the timing, and will believe it when my average wine-purchase price is upgraded from $10 a bottle to $12, thank you.

PS: I wanted to get acidopiolus for another yeast infection during the same horrid few months last year, went to the local health food store, and who walks up to help me out? The hottest man ever. I said, very meekly, “Um, I’ve been getting chronic yeast infections, and…” So he cuts me off and sighs empathetically. Then he tells me about when he had horrible diarrhea. Moral of the story, health food stores are no place to pick people up. I got my acidophilus, though.