Mommy Has Her Period Can She Have The Day Off?

I know it is a cliche for women comics to talk about boys and Tampax… and to that I say suck it! Firstly I’m not strictly a stand up comic anymore so I can write whatever I want for the people who need me to write the whole truth and nothing but, so help me Jewish Jesus, Amen. Secondly even though there have been many pixels spent reminding the world that if men had periods, there would be paid “period leave” and festivals and awards for all those who endured Ye Olde Monthly Hideousness, I have to add my voice to the chorus.

What is there in life that is not made more difficult by the monthly flowers, that pretty euphemism for bleeding from your nether regions like an about to be executed farm animal?

Where on a normal day one can somewhat struggle through the care and feeding of babes (not to mention oneself, one’s partners and anyone else one is responsible for) sprinkle in a little menstrual blood, and suddenly the most basic tasks appear to be insurmountable.

I was dying to get my period. By the age of thirteen everyone and their dog had theirs, and my chest was still a surfboard adorned with two tiny fried eggs (over easy) and below the waist as hairless as a baby’s… well you get the idea. Finally on July 14 (Bastille Day- the storming of the towers!) at the age of fourteen, I finally caught up to the rest of humanity and started to menstruate. I was overjoyed!

Of course, if they told you that first time what you were going to be in for, you’d never believe it, the sheer magnitude of adding seven more trips to the bathroom for one week put ever month for the next thirty five years, to all the other things they were going to expect you to do.

“You want me to manage what??? I’m going to leak… You mean onto everything, not just things I dislike? I’m going to get it for how long? And it’s going to make it difficult to… Are you fucking kidding me???”

With all of this swirling through my primeval female Neanderthal brain today, I walk into a pharmacy to buy tampons (of course, why would I have any stashed away in a color co-ordinated bag?) and I see this:


Perhaps that’s where they got the descriptive idiom “I saw red.”

“Where’s your masculine hygiene section?” I ask the unwitting pharmacist, a balding man of Iranian extraction although it is not immediately clear whether he is Jewish, Moslem or even an atheist.

He stutters, “Er… What are you looking for?”

“Industrial strength ball detergent,” I am tempted to reply. Instead I tell him I was joking. He chuckles uneasily. I thank him for giving me a subject for my blog today.

“Ah yes, that is very good,” he says enthusiastically, no doubt scratching his filthy, yet un-bloody nuts-sack under the counter.

I may have to bleed for another ten years, but I’m going to pretend that when I left that store today, that motherfucker climbed up on a ladder and took that offensive shit down.

Feminine hygiene. The only thing that needs to be washed out with extra deodorant is my mouth. And you would to, if it was your time of the month…


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