Tag Archives: periods

The Relationship-Saving iPhone App

iphone_iperiod2_5If there’s anything I love about my iPhone, it’s that I’m starting to be able to micromanage my life.

There’s an app for everything!

Like iPeriod.

Men, before you go “ACK, NO, NOT PERIOD TALK” — think about the brilliance here. AN EARLY WARNING SYSTEM. A bitchy-factor crystal ball! All for you! You wanted it… they invented it.

Continue reading

My Time of Paradox

Hormones. I hate them.

Periods are a necessary evil in every woman’s life. What can we do? It’s there. Monthly. Looming dangerously and tauntingly on every lunar cycle.

My time used to be the full moon. Now, for some reason, I’m magically on the waxing half-moon. Which means I got caught by surprise at work. On a Monday. So, yeah, that happened. Nothing horrible, thank goodness. Just “Well, this is five days early. That’s lovely. And fuck you too.”

I never had a cunty-phase, though. I always have a “cuntday” a couple days before my period, sometimes the day before. I generally always have one great “ranting” bog post a month. You do the math. Continue reading

Don’t Mind Her; It’s Just Hormones

Men may balk if they see this is about periods, but they really should read it, methinks, for a little perspective.

Yesterday, during the afternoon of my Shitty, Shitty Day, I got my period. In the space of about 30 minutes, my eye infection suddenly started flushing itself out, and my emotions just totally took a chill pill. It was an amazing emotional about-face within about 90 minutes.

It’s not that often that I get all homicidally tense with my PMS, but I was getting there yesterday as just one thing after another added up into a really crappy day. After I wrote my whining post, for instance, my website wouldn’t load for me (making me think it was down) and I discovered I had a big (like 2-inch radius) infected bug bite on the inside of my knee. Plus an eye infection? Plus my just-verified cockroach infestation? Plus my yeast infection?

My friend was visiting and I literally looked skyward and just bellowed at the rhetorical gods, “REALLY? I really needed THIS too today?”

My friend cracked up, as did I, but I sure as hell meant every word. Then he left, I got my period, and I suddenly felt mellow again. Poof. Like that. Continue reading

RANT: On the Rag with The Goddesses

Okay, I’m into the whole love-yoself-sistah feminist self-worship thing and all that, to an extent.

This sort of thing blows my mind. Personally, if I was 12 or 13, and I had a granola-chomping mother who was foisting this “love your period, love your womanhood” crap down my throat, I’d spontaneously combust.

I hate when people take something that’s really inconvenient and annoying and try to exalt some greatness into it. Sure, having a period is a reminder that we’re female and a conscious realization of our ability to create and bear life. Nice, fabulous, wonderful. Will that get the stains out of my bedsheets, too, or is that just a lovely little inconcrete and essentially useless euphemistic piece of bullshit?

Oh, I say it’s the latter. These people are right up there with the fucking naive twits who think a bird shitting on you means good luck. People will tell themselves anything if it means pocketing the cash for another therapy session.

Fuck, man. All I need to remind me that I am woman, ergo I fucking rock, are my tits. That I have a twat is just bonus, okay? My whole fucking body tells me I am woman, ergo I roar. I don’t need to pull a South Park, bleed for seven days, and miraculously stump the odds by living just to know that I’ve got the DNA freebie strand, okay? My period is the bane of my existence. I fucking hate it. I wish I never had to bleed again. I’m presently in the middle of trying to suppress my period for three months at a time, but the three months has been split into six weeks thanks to an unwanted period this week.

Now, a bloody tangent. So, I’m, you know, there on my throne, unwrapping the first of a new pack of pads, and the Always “Wings” adhesive cover tab has “Have a happy period” written all across the fucking thing.

Happy? You want me to be happy about cramps, bloating, irritability, alcohol sensitivity, and the constant risk of staining undergarments, clothing, and sheets for the better part of a week? Yeah, sure, okay, and while we’re at it, you want me to be thrilled about losing my paycheck, crashing my car, and finding my husband in bed with his secretary? Fuck right off.

Goddamned marketers.

But back to the initial topic: I’d like to send a big fuck you out to all the women who try to make me feel guilty about the fact that I think having menses is the absolutely worst part about being female. It doesn’t mean I hate my femininity, it means I hate mood swings and pain and messes and feeling unclean. How is that wrong? Fucking sanctimonious crap is what that is. Get off your high horse and join the rest of us on this little plane we like to call “Reality.”

Say Something, Dammit

The sky is blue. This I know.

I can be told once in my life that the sky is blue, and I need not be reminded. I may have had three concussions and had bleeding on my brain, but I’m sufficiently clued in enough to be able to recall the blueness of that great big yonder up there. It’s there, it’s bigger than life, and it’s unavoidable.

What I’m not smart enough to remember, however, is just how spiffy I am.

You see, I have these alien invaders in my body that will never, ever go away. They’re from planet Estrogen, and, man, as far as aliens go, they’re a right bitch sometimes.

Unfortunately, there is an entire world filled with people of my ilk who have been invaded by these cosmic cunts, and we’re known as Women. These “Estrogenies” do things to us that we’re not that crazy about. They make us insecure, make us moody, and make us sometimes a little inconsistent. Fortunately, they also make our boobs swell once a month. It’s a give-and-take thing, really.

Guys are pretty low-key. We like that about you. We like the fact that we know we can make you a sandwich, kiss your neck, give you a beer, and you feel like you’re the king of the jungle. Easy-peasy.

We, however, communicate more than you. You, obviously, communicate less. And you’re deceptive. You like to think you’re simple. “I am man. I grunt, therefore I am.” But you’re complicated. You get moody, you get silent, and you internalize. It’s what men do. We understand this.

What we can’t process, though, is the price it sometimes comes at. Men close themselves off, and then by so doing, they also forget to communicate with us about the little things that help to keep relationships moving nice and happy-like.

“You look nice today.”
“Have I told you lately how much you rock?”

We wish we didn’t need to be told that everything’s well and good and we’re still cared about and we still do all the things to you that we did way back when, but we do need to hear these things. And frankly, you need to hear them from us, too. Everyone does.

Compliments and expressions of affection are like yogurt. They have a shelf-life, and while they keep a little longer than you might think, but when they go, man, they go. And then the weird comes down. Insecurities rise, distance ensues, and things get complicated. Relationship mold. Ew.

It’s lame, but it happens. It doesn’t take much to get out of your head sometimes and just remember to say good things about your partner. Keep them secure about how they’re valued, even when you’ve got things going on otherwise. We all get a little too internal, and it’s just not fair to our lovers if we’re all self-involved and failing to acknowledge their worth to us from time to time.

It’s really easy to forget to be communicative about these things when your sex life is going, but at least then you have a physical expression of that affection, and sometimes things can be left unsaid. If you’re not getting physical often, then it’s really important to at least have the communication working, right? Pretty obvious there. 2 + 2 = 4, yeah?

It’d be wonderful if we only had to be told once in our lives that we’re loved, but it doesn’t work that way. The more it happens, the more real it becomes to us. Fleeting suggestions of affection really don’t leave deep imprints on us, and frankly, they often don’t even make a dent. Even worse is, if we’re told how great we are over a period of time, and then time lapses where it ceases to happen much at all anymore, then there’s even greater reason to become insecure.

Put your money where your mouth is, people, and tell ‘em that you dig ‘em. Tell ‘em often, tell ‘em good. If you don’t, you never know, you might just lose what you have, and that’d be a crying shame. Especially if the feelings existed, but your communication simply lacked. The price we pay for these oversights is far too high.

(And, hey, watch out for the Estrogenies, eh?)

I Hear My Monthly Train A-Comin’

Something’s snapped in me this afternoon. I awoke with a spasm in my neck from having slept wrong after my before-the-crack-of-dawn inhalations of an illicit nature, and my mood has steadily declined since.

I won’t bore you with my shit. Suffice to say my day is a heady stew of money woes, persistent battles with the flu, a turn to shit for the weather, and being overwhelmed by several things that loom ominously before me, like rent. My inability to do a single productive thing today has resulted in a blackening of my previously “just dark” mood, and now the forecast for my evening has me thinking I should’ve started this fucking thing with, “It was a dark and stormy psychic evening when our protagonist…”

And it clicks. Coupled with my stresses and the full-fucking-moon rising somewhere on the horizon is the dreaded bitch of PMS.

There is a reason, my friends, that PMS has previously been used as a “diminished responsibility” defense for murder: Sometimes, you go right fucking nuts.

And the funny thing is, most of us, we know it’s coming. Every single month you get that day or two where nothing’s going to work. Your mood’s gonna get worse and worse no matter what’s going on, and all you can do is just cope – that is, you would cope, if you actually realized it was just biology fucking with your head again.

Trouble is, it’s usually not until you’re half-way through the ever-increasing darkening that you remember: It’s that fucking time of the month again. It’s your early warning system for the red tide, and the villagers better get the fuck out of the way.

Women despise PMS. Women loathe the emotional charges that come from being victims of estrogen. We wish for days of smoother sailing, when everything would be a little less turbulent. Some days there’s just nothing a gal can do but wait to ride out the storm.

You guys think it sucks? Try riding the wave from inside the barrel sometimes, boys. You ain’t fucking woman enough to deal with half the head games brought on by that fickle bitch named Estrogen.

Personally, when moods like this fell me, I stay out of everyone’s way when I can. I keep the conversations short and sweet, I keep to myself, I keep my mouth shut, and I keep out of trouble.

‘Cos god knows I just don’t have the patience for a court trial, diminished responsibility or no. Just be happy I’ve got cheap, dull kitchen knives tonight is all I’m saying, man.

If I had any Midol kickin’ ‘round tonight, I’d grind those bad boys into powder, let ‘em swim in vodka and cranberry, and I’d call it the Red Tide Rising martini. At least then I could be a bitch in style.