We're Short A Girl, But We Have The Cup

Dear Choch,

I'm just not that into you.

We've been together for these 34 years, 11 months, 2 weeks and 12 days, even though I didn't know about you for the first 15 years. I thought you had something to do with the little hole just north of you until one day when I was trying to convince my mother to let me use this AMAZING BRAND NEW INVENTION called a tampon, and I pitched it to her as, "If you can get a baby out of that tiny little opening, I'd think getting a little tube of cotton up there would be a no brainer."

Her falling over and dying of laughter-induced asphyxiation was my first clue that I was missing something key. And yes, I went through two whole menstrual years before I knew you existed. Cult. Schizophrenic. You try to fair better in life.

Anyway, I figured out what the hell you were four years later soon enough, and sure, you've done great things for me. You allowed me to wring out three humans so they could breath well enough to eat all my good cookies someday, and you've single-handedly kept this guy around for the better part of 14 years. It's not like he's still here because of my mad housekeeping skillz or anything.

All I'm saying is that I get it. You're important. So is astro-physics but you don't see me sticking my hands in that gooepy hot mess, either, do you? I'm happy letting you be you, and letting me be me, and calling it a day. You're a glorified tube sock, a protein depository, and to be perfectly honest...you kind of wigg me the fuck out.

I have never been the 'I have vagina; hear me roar!' kind of women. I never felt the need to sit on a mirror to explore the source of my power and femininity. I made my father videotape the births of my children from the neighboring hospital. I got pregnant with my first kid because I couldn't find my diaphragm and figured I was digesting it. I don't care how you work...I just care that you do. The source of MY power and femininity? DSW. It's not oozey. I don't have to wax it. The worst thing anyone leaves behind in DSW is congealing white chocolate mochas. Which are still pretty fucking delicious.

But still, I decided to let you try one of those Diva Cup things. Because I am an idiot.

Our midwife had warned us that things like this would be a problem when she tried to reach my cervix and realized that holy shit you're long and had to take a running start to get her fingers all the way to the top of you. Good times, good times. I don't have the luxury of taking running starts to get weapons of mass absorption in their proper place. All I have are 10 stubby fingers that would rather dig around the insides of a rotting wildebeest carcass than try to get a plastic Barbie funnel in it's proper place. And yet, I tried. For you.

It's not degrading enough that I can put a 4.3 cm plastic shotglass in you and not feel it, oh no. You had to go and an attention whore about the whole thing. You had to keep pushing that thing back out. You had to shift it sideways. You had to make me spend every 47.28 minutes with my entire hand up in you (which seriously, I could have gone my whole life not knowing I can get a whole hand in you, thanks for that gem of an ego boost) adjusting and re-adjusting that thing while I was on vacation with my entire family AND 10 other bloggers. AT A WATERPARK. Are you trying to tell me something? Not getting enough attention? Take it up with your co-owner; that's in his job-description, not mine.

And don't for a second tell me I was doing it wrong. Want I should make a list of all the random crap I've had to stick in you over the past 22 years? I didn't think so. I'm the World's Leading Authority in the field of wedging plastic contraptions in you to keep stuff in, or out. And I'm done. I'm over you. I'm buying a Red Tent and we are spending 7-9 days of every month in it, end of story.

You have failed me for the last time.

Your Lovin',

Mr Lady

{Thanks to BlogHer for the cross-posting action}

An Open Letter to Mr Lady from Whatever the Hell It Is That Has Staged a Coup in Her Urinary Tract

Dear Mr Lady,

We regret to notify you that until further notice, we have hostily occupied all territories from the bladder south. We are willing to negotiate release of said organs and/or their functions back to you on our terms only; the time for polite discourse has long past.

Please be aware the we have only come to this impasse as a result of your own gross negligence and complete disregard for the rules of civility, propriety and increased age.

Our list of demands is henceforth laid out:

  • You will immediately cease all contact with that person who sleeps next to you. We are not interested in how good he smells, or that he's getting awfully tan this summer. In accordance with article 3, paragraph 2, bullet point C in the warranty issued to you, couples together more than one decade are only covered for two (2) conjugal visits per lunar month, and any activity beyond that is considered a breech of contract and the preventative maintainance warranty is thereby null and void. The two of you seem to think it's been prom night every day for the past month, and we are out of the anti-bodies needed to keep your urinary tract uninfected. We are tired. Is The End extremely nigh? Are you desperate for another child before your old uterus just shrivels us and dies? Apparently you've overlooked the fact that you'd already shot out a veritable litter of children before that clock of yours even started ticking, and if you're hoping for another child, well, decency prevents us from stating in a public forum the can of whoop-ass we will unleash upon your boobs alone. Perhaps if you got your lazy but up and peed after doing whatever it is your two do at three in the morning, our job would be made a little easier.

  • You will go to bed at a reasonable hour. When you stay up typing until 2, we are tired the next morning. You ingest pot after pot of coffee, in a pathetic attempt to maintain consciousness, and that coffee dehydrates us. It does not count that you use 12 cups of water to brew said coffee; caffeine kills. It also does not count if you take a perfectly good glass of water and turn it into iced tea. We need hydration in order to do our job properly. Maybe if you slept occasionally, you wouldn't need so much coffee and we'd be golfing in The Hamptons rather than building a barbed-wire fence across your urethra.

  • Heed our warnings. When we are forced to speak, we do so loudly. Remember a few months ago when we sent all those stones down the tube? THAT was a warning. You drank water, you swallowed cranberry pills, and we were appeased. But after a week, you were back to your old tricks. We keep waking you up in the middle of the night to pee, we have afflicted you with a mild case of incontinence, we stop you mid-stream half the time, and the only message you seem to be getting here is that you are pregnant. YOU ARE NOT PREGNANT. God himself would have a difficult time getting the seed of the Messiah to take in that plumbing you've got. We don't know how to make this any clearer to you. You will hear us and you will reply will immediate compliance, or else.

  • Join the first world. Just down the street from you is a large building full of small rooms. I believe you call it The Mall. In that "mall" there are stores, and they sell underwear. You are no longer an angtsy 20 something, and you are not in 1960's California or New York. Purchase a pair of underwear. WEAR IT. We like underwear, and if you get something black and lacy, so will that horn-dog that sleeps next to you. Pinky swear.

  • Cleanliness is next to godliness. Take a damn shower already. We appreciate that you are overwhelmingly busy all day typing on that black box you call a laptop, but it is HOT outside. You are genetically predisposed to sweating like a stuck pig in a sauna. Showers; 'nuff said.

  • Um, what's the deal with the cocktails? The one thing you've had going in your favor is your absolute refusal to ingest alcohol at home. Lately, you have broken even this rule. As if the coffee and the tea weren't sucking the life right out of us, now you're adding Smith and Kerns' to the mix? Dearest, 80 year old women at bingo drink Smith and Kerns'. You are 33 years old. At the very least, you could be drinking Cape Cods. We like cranberry juice, in case you hadn't noticed. As happy as we are for your teeth, and as much as we know that your evening night caps help you relax and keep you from grinding those teeth down to tiny little nubs in your sleep, we would like to point out that if you drink enough of those cocktails, you will ignore the pain we've sent your way, your Auntie Flo that has popped in for her monthly visit, and all sence of propriety, and you and that man will get to doing the one thing that angers us the most. If you need help to stop, we can refer you to several support groups in your neighborhood.


Until such a time as these demands are met in full, we are officially at war with you. We will not make this easy for you. You have a 15 hour drive coming up this week, and you will need us functioning at maximum capacity. The choice is yours. We have nothing better to do.

We now interrupt your regularly scheduled broadcast

An open letter to Mr. Lady
From: Her hair follicles.
CC: Her skin
Date: 28 Nov 07

Dear Mr Lady,

What exactly is wrong with you? We've been working together for 32 3/4 years now, and so far, there have been few incidents. We have fulfilled our end of the deal with you; you have luscious, full hair, that isn't a terrible color and grows like a weed. You're welcome. We have worked very hard to take all of those Ding Dongs and Coffee Ice Cream treats and turn them into something that we can work with. You're welcome. You haven't exactly made this easy on us, but we have never complained. Yeah, we did give you a little gap in your left eyebrow, but dude, you so had that coming. Maybe if you didn't own 3 pairs of tweezers, we'd consider closing that gap for you. Bygones.

We feel it's time to remind you that nothing comes for free in this world. We sat back silently as you cut us, tweezed us, dyed us, did this shit to us:and now we're fighting back. You have officially crossed the line. The price you pay for that awesome head of hair is this; we will grow wherever we damn well choose, and you will deal with it. Can't handle a few little hairs around your belly button? Not. Our. Problem.

What is comes down to is this...yesterday, that thing you did in the bathroom with the hot wax? That means war. Do you not realize that the hair we grow on your upper lip is delicate? It's like our babies. And you murdered them. You ripped them out AT THEIR ROOTS and we can't ever get them back. We are devastated and we will get you for this. It may take us a few weeks, but we're sending new ones in. We suggest you leave them alone.

We appreciate that you don't have either a degree in biology or esthetics, in fact, we know your lazy, drunk ass never even went to college. Allow us to explain something to you; we grow on your lip for a reason. For your protection. We grow on your eyelids and in your nose for the same damned reason. Mother Nature is not one to be toyed with.

Are you aware that they used hot wax as a form of torture in the Spanish Inquisition (no one expects it, you know)? It is considered inhumane. Cruel. AND unusual. This isn't Guantanamo Bay, toots.

Your punishment for this most unspeakable offense is that we have spoken to the skin, and we're going to make you burn. And then the skin is going to get all dry. Dry, and splotchy. You're going to look like you have a really bad sunburn, maybe even chicken pox, for at least THREE days. It's going to itch. It's going to sting. And don't think we overlooked the Great Chin-hair Massacre of 2007, either. We noticed, and now you will, too. Your mother and her mother and her mother, too, all had the same 3 hairs growing out of their chins that you do. You don't see them running around ripping those hairs out, do yah? Sure, none of them have been laid since Juice Newton was in the top 40, but we're not the reproductive system, so we care not.

And we swear to god on high, if you so much as think about using that wax anywhere south of our equator, we're going medieval on your ass. Don't try us. You wouldn't like us when we're angry.

Sincerely,

Your Follicles.

An open letter to my minions

Dear children,

Let me preface this by saying how much I love you. My life got a little better on the days each of you were born. I have relished every moment with you so far; every nose-bleed and poopey diaper and science project. You are my whole world.

Got it?

Good.

Stay the fuck out of my room, already. I know that you ache for me when we're apart, and I miss your precious little faces, too. But dears, from 9 pm until 7:30 am I am not momma. I am donut-eating-tea-drinking-tv-watching woman. My shift ENDS at 9.

I realize that I have created this problem by allowing you to sleep with me when you were little. But you're old enough to know something...I did that for me. I am totally incapable of walking anywhere at 4 in the morning, let alone into a nursery to pick up a 7 pound human. You slept with me so that I could nurse you at any hour without stubbing/breaking/decapitating something. And none of you did it past age 1. I can't remember what I did a year ago, let alone 9 years ago. There's no WAY you remember sleeping with me.

I know that I have a nice, big, cozy new bed and that no mortal can resist a little nappy-poo in it, but I slept on a concrete slab with the same bedding set on top of it for 9 1/2 years straight so that you could have legos and happy meals and skateboards and nice, cushy mattresses with soft, fluffy blankets. It's momma's turn now. And I spent a small chuck of your college money on that new bed and the one and only thing that seems to assuage my guilt over that is a good nights' sleep.

And remember that tall guy who smells good and pays the bills? Yeah, he sleeps in the bed with me. You know that drawer in the desk in my room that you're not allowed to go into because daddy's things are in it, cleverly hidden under some burnable CD's and a few cables? The same reason you can't see that stuff is the very same reason you cannot come into my room at 2:43 in the morning when the door is closed. I promise you, whatever nightmare you were having will be greatly increased if you open that door. Besides, that door is only closed every second full moon following 3 1/2 days exactly of rain showers when the moon is in the second house before a golf tournament. Isn't not all the time. You'll manage.

The thing here, kids, is that momma cannot sleep if you are anywhere near her. Jesus Christ could drive a Mack truck into my room blasting Kanye West and momma would keep on dreaming of unicorns and Johnny Depp, but if you so much as scratch your nose, I am wide awake and googling leprosy. Momma needs her sleep. Momma is a very, very ugly woman when she is tired. And you people sleep like you're auditioning for Cirque De Soleil. It's not gymnastics class; it's rest.

No, little darlings, not just one of you can climb into my bed. If 1of3 gets in, 2of3 senses that his monster-guard is missing and wakes up and climbs in. 3of3 then senses that someone in the world is being paid attention to instead of her, and then it's with the screaming and the kicking and the popsicle requests.

I love you guys, I really do, but the getting into bed with mom has to stop. You have your own beds. They're nice beds. They smell like you. You also have a very comfortable couch with an exquisite blanket your grandmother knitted on it. Sleep there. Or learn how to brew a pot of coffee.

Your lovin',

Mom.