Dont Mince Words

Angry Marna

Anyone who has known me for more than two weeks knows I bitch about my lady parts.  Usually it’s a nice dose of sexual inactivity complaints, but the majority of the debate is about my period and 37-year relationship with Procter & Gamble products.

In the ’70s, male gyn’s generally felt the solution to long periods was a hysterectomy.  Radical, it seems and yet after another 45-day period I felt it was the only modern-day solution.  Bid my blood bag adieu.  The $20-30/month saved on feminine products could be spent on alcohol.  I searched on Blue Cross for a doctor and decided to find the oldest, whitest guy possible.  Surely he’d authorize the surgery.

I assumed the position in the exam room and waited for him.  The old guy waltzed in, looked at my card and my complaint and 10 seconds later said, “You have a confused uterus.  You are 47 and your uterus isn’t producing the right levels of estrogen and testoserone so it doesn’t know if it should ovulate.”  I tried to counter that with humor while he was blowing out the cobwebs and fingering me.  “Well, living in Santa Barbara can confuse any uterus with the lack of viable, age-appropriate sexual partners,” I said.

A week later, biopsy results came back and I can’t blame any of this on cancer.  I just have a confused uterus which means I’m going on birth control for horomone control, not because my lady parts are actually seeing combat.  So, it looks like P&G and I will be best friends for a few more years.

I realized the other day that my “monthly” bleeding has had approximately a 360 month run. That’s a 30-year term. Will I ever hold the deed to my pussy? Will Proctor & Gamble release the consumer stronghold it has on my bleed box?

I did some basic math and determined I’ve spent $2,156.50 on feminine products in my lifetime. That excludes the bushels of underwear I’ve ruined not to mention the sheets downgraded to never-for-guests. That figure excludes the iron pills I’ve had to take to keep from being anemic or the Ortho Novum 135s I’d take for period control. I’ve also excluded doctor office copays where I’d check in to see if there were any new medical developments to make the bleeding subside.

Thirty years later and not much has changed. I feel like a walking waterbed two days before. I want to kill humans and eat chocolate on day one. I want to sleep day two. I speculate on day three if my 40 box will last me.

Today I know that my feminine consumerism could of bought 15 kegs of good import beer, 70 tanks of gas, about four pairs of Manolo Blahnik’s, or more than 2,000 Kit Kat bars.

I’m ready for a reverse mortgage so I can buy back my life, my pussy, and something cool that doesn’t come with a cardboard applicator.