When It’s Raining

It won’t stop raining. It’s been raining and storming and raining and raining for what seems like weeks now, and while at first it feels like ooh, fun! Rain! because it’s all novel and stuff, as it’s been hot as blazes and sunny! Sunny! SUNNY! all the time, when I can’t get outside to take the dog for a quick pee and poop and she ends up holding it until she explodes in grand dramatic fashion, well then, I’d like it if it would stop, please, because I’m sick of being wet, and I’m oh-so-sick of dog assplosions.

There were thousands of things that were annoying about Big Love this week, not the least of which is that it harkened back to season one, which was The Season of Bill Paxton’s Ass, because honestly, dude, I saw his ass more during that one season than I’d seen of my own in YEARS. I thought we were done with Bill’s ass, now that I can map out the moles on it, but I guess they want me to memorize the pattern of hair growth as well. And God, we won’t even talk about that strange woman who talked in such a random, indiscernible accent that Adam and I were puzzled as all hell, when suddenly she announced that she was from Boston, hence the accent, and Jesus, I almost turned off the TV right then and there, because no no, that was not a Boston accent, and I need to tell anyone and everyone who saw the damn show that no NO, Bostonians don’t sound like Top Chef’s Micah after thirty beers, no they don’t.

Anyway, I made a great meal tonight — chicken with roasted sweet potatoes and onions, asparagus and garlic green beans — and while the whole thing tasted delightful, the dry rub I made had a fair amount of cayenne pepper in it, and what I hadn’t counted on was while the chicken cooked, the pepper was diffused throughout the house, which had the effect of — ha! HA! — being pepper sprayed or, I don’t know, like a giant cloud of mace whipped through the kitchen, and worse, it’s not the first time I’ve done this.

This was followed, of course, by the dog eating a giant pile of poop, and since it was raining and dark, I gleefully plucked it out of her mouth, which is further illustration of my complete and total lack of common sense, because I could totally and quite clearly smell it, yet I plunged my fingers directly into her gaping maw. Mmmm … POOPY FINGERS. Wet Willy, anyone?

Also, I must issue an apology to anyone who’s watched Big Brother at my urging this season. Not a single player is marginally likable, and if I could smack Amber with a Nerf bat until she stopped bloody CRYING already, I would. I really would. But I’m sorry. I’m having a hard time even enduring it, but once I commit, there is no turning back.

As a precursor to any menstrual talk (I’m trying y’all, I’m really trying, it’s that it takes so much effort, because it’s so ICKY, and I feel so guilty about doing it), one of the things everyone told me when I first started getting bikini waxes was that eventually, it stops hurting, and it becomes a piece of cake, or at least a hell of a lot easier. Better waxing through frequency! Hello, um: no. Consider this a public service. Bikini waxes hurt just as bad the fortieth time as they do the first, which is to say that it feels like a heartless beast is ripping your hair out of your crotch with a hot, sticky substance and a piece of lame-ass cloth, which, conveniently, turns out to be a literal phrase, because it makes its way directly into your ass, actually, and quite lamely at that. Lame-ass indeed.

AND NOW IF YOU DO NOT WANT TO BE REGALED WITH ANYTHING MENSTRUAL-RELATED, I URGE YOU TO NAVIGATE AWAY NOW. For suggestions on what to read, might I offer these lovely little bits on the future of Boston sports? Yes, we’re ecstatic, why do you ask? And further, who cares if Garnett, Allen and Pierce are oldish? The Celtics! They are RELEVANT again! And the Yankees! They don’t have Eric Gagne, because we do! Suck on that, bitches!

Also, if you want to start from the beginning and are new, at least on menstrual center, start here.

So, look. I have a few menstrual cup-related notes gleaned from discussions with folks, and the most important thing that I had to learn first-hand, thankfully with corroboration, is this: Do not use The Keeper under any circumstances. I lost my Moon Cup and since I ended up with The Keeper by accident and never returned it, I figured hey! Why not? Ha. HA!

Here’s why not: it smells, and by “smells,” I mean it smells SO AWFUL that I actually thought it was me, oh my God, and I was thisclose to calling the doctor, because I was pretty sure I had some sort of deeply disturbing infection, and these horrible memories of the miserable time my college roommate had when she had what we referred to as The Beav, which was short for BV — bacterial vaginosis — I was EXTREMELY DISPLEASED and terrified, because I didn’t want The Beav. Mercifully, however, I didn’t have The Beav. I had The Keeper, which formed a horrid cocktail of odors when mixed with … you know. And I’m not alone, because oh, there are many reports and oh, when I switched back to (thank God) the Moon Cup? Gone. Fresh as a daisy, or at least a springtime daisy that resembles Carrie. So no Keeper. Under any circumstances.

Also, as to what a final cup should feel like while its in: it snaps open like an umbrella, and you should be able to stick your finger in there and feel the entire opened cup, and it should actually fill the whole … girly bit area (Am technical!). To test if it’s a solid seal, push on the side of the cup; it should make a suctiony sound (yummy!). This means it’s in there as best you can, and is all sucked in. If it’s not in right, pull it down a little — it doesn’t sit very high in the girly bit at all, and a good bit of stem should be on the outside, but for God’s sake, the stem should not be sticking out of your undies like an overactive girl penis. And if you find that you’re having trouble peeing, it’s not in high enough — I actually can’t go to the bathroom if it’s too low, which is just about the freakiest feeling in the world, and is very likely how I landed myself a cup-related UTI. Others have reported this too, which: ew! Ew! (Am mature, too!)

Lastly, a word about clotting. If you are the clotting type, this is where your cup will fail you. Large clots (the size of about a quarter or larger, which I’ve discussed with my doctor, and no, apparently, it’s not anything for me to worry about, but then again, I have a thyroid disease, so don’t ask me) totally trip up the cup’s collection, and cause leakage almost immediately. The cup catches the clot, but any liquid that comes with the clot? Hello, undies! It’s all over you, and it’s everywhere, and oh my God, please empty it ASAP, unless you want to and end up buying cheap black pants at Target, because your khakis are ruined and you’re at work! How awesome! Nothing says “professional” like bloody pants! Personally, I can feel clots make their hasty exit, so I hightail it to a restroom, but if you can’t I … I don’t know how to help you. I’m sorry.

I’m sure there’s more, but frankly, I’ve just grossed myself out enough for one day.

Happy Wednesday, in what is likely the longest week ever, oh my God.

*The Samples. Um, I love Sean Kelly? And I never, ever said a bad word about him, like EVER, and no, one of his relatives and/or friends didn’t e-mail me and yell at me for spreading false rumors, why? IT NEVER HAPPENED. DON’T LIE TO ME.

26 comments July 31st, 2007