Wave Your Tampon in the Air If You’re With Me


Look. I just read this post over at Firework in Stilettos and it got me thinking. Thinking about obnoxious people protesting outside Planned Parenthood when they could be devoting their time to volunteering at Big Brothers Big Sisters or something, if they really want to save the youth of tomorrow. Thinking about how annoying it is that everyone assumes your legs are always open if you take birth control. How people think that having your legs open all the time is really that bad…if you want to have sex and you’re being safe and responsible, by all means, open your legs up and go for it.

But mostly, strangely enough, it got me because of one line that Kat wrote:

The nurse hands me my pills and as per Planned Parenthood protocol, she places them into a small brown paper bag.  They’re already in a protective plastic blister back, a blue plastic envelope and a foil wrapper, but they (like tampons, maxi pads and most things associated with the female reproductive system) have to be hidden.

And that, right there, caused an epiphany the likes of which I have never before experienced. I’m awkward about my period.

Sure, I’ve blogged about cramps before, and sure, I’ve mentioned it to guys (my ex-boyfriend used to visibly cringe whenever I said anything about my period, as if he would “catch” my heavy flow by simply hearing the word “cramp” or “period” or…time of the month, honestly). But why are we so private about something literally every woman experiences? It isn’t like an STI, where you maybe did something risky or irresponsible and got infected. My period happened when I was in 7th grade, and it happened to millions of women before and millions since.

Since you asked, the day I got my period sucked. It was Easter morning, and all of a sudden whazam! (that’s the new *I got my period* word) there it was.

You’ve probably heard this before — or maybe not, since apparently we just don’t talk about these things in polite society, Cappy – but girls wait and wait and wait to get their periods. We rush to the bathroom in the middle of math because we think it happened, but it didn’t, and we’re secretly dismayed. And then it’s real. It actually happens, right before you have to put your Easter dress on and sit through two hours of church, and you suddenly hate your period with the passion only a hormonal pre-teen can possess.

I had that.

I had to wear a pad, y’all. And it was not small…they call them maxi-pads for a reason. I basically wore a diaper to church. I was 12 years old and wearing a big ole diaper in the house of God, singing songs about how He Is Risen but the whole time I wanted Him To Smite Me so I could be Done-zo With Periods.

And now, my period is something that just happens. For a while, it was debilitating, and I couldn’t get out of bed half the time, so I’m on birth control. For my period, not that it’s any of your business. But in case you think it is, I’ll indulge you. It’s for my period. And I wear tampons now because let’s be real, I do not need diapers and I definitely don’t need a pillow in my undies.

Y’all can deal with my lady parts, and you will like it! Or at the very least, you can keep your complaints to yourselves. Wave your tampons in the air if you’re with me!

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Cool Girls Who Blog


I don’t know what it is, but…I don’t follow any male bloggers. Not a one. How is this possible, you ask?

Because my blog-following quota has been filled by some super cool girls who blog. And because we girls gotta stick together, I’ve decided to talk about some of these girls. Also, there are times when you need to know that other girls have weird TMI moments, too, like “I’m hungry but I kinda need to poo,” or “Just shut up and let me focus on my snot!” Not saying I’ve ever said those things…but…

A Confederacy of Spinsters: They love Stanley Tucci. Really, I don’t need to say more, but I will. They write odes to men in sweaters. They write about the awkwardness (and awesomeness) of online dating and calling your boyfriend baby. So basically, you should love them. Also, they’re super nice girls. And I bet they’re pretty, too. They won’t be spinsters for long.

Go Guilty Pleasures: Jules has been commenting on my blog for a long time, and since I am a bitch busy person, I hadn’t read her blog until this past week. But now I’m kinda addicted. She loves chipmunks, which I admire since I do too. Also, she basically is a chipmunk (in the best way), and she likes slap bracelets and (duh) guilty pleasures.

Girl on the Contrary: She’s insane. She’s cute. She’s a little obsessed with the apocalypse, but who isn’t? She makes stuff up in her head. I love her. We’ve written a post together. It’s awesome. Also, she’s southern. Y’all.

Monica’s Tangled Web: I like Monica because she’s a strong woman. I also like her because she’s been extremely supportive of me, which I appreciate since she doesn’t know me personally. I really love her. And I love her blog, especially since sometimes I don’t get discounts either, and I have a hard time with sales representatives treating me like I’m an idiot.

Writer’s Block: Ahahahahah yes I did! I included myself in this. Because if I don’t think I’m cool or my blog is noteworthy, no one will. So there. That’s philosophy. Or psychology. Or neither, really.

There are more. There are lots more. But I can’t be asked to write about them, mainly because I haven’t discovered them yet. But you guys should definitely scour the internet for more awesome blogs (written by both sexes, because we’re all about equal rights here).

I have now updated my blogroll, because I just 1) realized I haven’t in a year and 2) love the feeling of seeing my blog’s name on someone’s blog roll who I have never heard of. It gives me chills, honestly. Love it.

On a completely(ish) unrelated note, I may someday (in the distant future) make t-shirts for my blog. So. If you’re awesome, you’ll let me know what your favorite quotes and/or posts are from my blog. Ok? Ok.

Cheers to all of you for making my life merry and bright. It’s like Christmas on WordPress every day.

Girl Crush


I have a girl crush on a few people. Okay, the list is a little longer than I care to admit, but whatever. It’s 2011, I’m allowed to platonically fall in love with a few celebrities. I have lots of middle-aged-man crushes too. I’ll blog about those sometime. I have so much love, I can’t only spend it on boys my age…

1. Jwoww – I’m sorry, but I’m kinda in love. Seriously? The chick’s hot (and 90% plastic, I know I sound like a 16 year old male). She just seems like she’d be fun. And I’m a little afraid of her, which is…cool…
“I came home because I didn’t want to cheat on my boyfriend. And I felt like eatin’ ham and drinkin’ water. Ham.” – Jwoww.


2. Anne Hathaway – Girl’s got sass. Seriously. I think her role in the Devil Wears Prada changed my life (or at least my hairstyle)…people say I remind them of her, which kinda makes no sense because we look absolutely nothing alike. Really. But I’ll take it anyway cuz I love her.

3. Portia de Rossi – Meow. She’s beautiful. I guess that’s all I had to say, really, except that Ellen is a very lucky lady.

4. Speaking of Ellen – Gaaah! Love. She’s hilarious, talented, fun, hilarious, super cute, hilarious…did I mention hilarious? I want to be her. Or at least be next to her sometime.
“Hope y’all like my new profile pic. The photographer caught me just as I was walking in.” – Ellen DeGeneres on Facebook.

5. Emma Stone – It’s really just because of Easy A. I’m in love with her in that movie. She’s so…sassy. Apparently I like when people are sassy…
“Whatever happened to chivalry? Does it only exist in 80’s movies? I want John Cusack holding a boombox outside my window. I wanna ride off on a lawnmower with Patrick Dempsey. I want Jake from Sixteen Candles waiting outside the church for me. I want Judd Nelson thrusting his fist into the air because he knows he got me. Just once I want my life to be like an 80’s movie, preferably one with a really awesome musical number for no apparent reason. But no, no, John Hughes did not direct my life.” –  Olive, “Easy A”

6. Kat Von D – She’s talented, she’s chill, she has the most amazing makeup line I’ve ever come across (and I’m including MAC in that, which is hard to belive), and she’s a cutie.

7. And last, but certainly not least, Meryl Streep –  The woman can do everything. Mama Mia, Julie and Julia, Doubt, Out of Africa…and she’s absolutely gorgeous. I want to be Meryl Streep. So badly.
“So I said to myself, go ahead, take a chance, hire the smart, fat girl.” – Miranda Priestly, The Devil Wears Prada.
Priceless.

A Cat Will Never Say:


1. “Let’s just be friends.”
Obviously, cats can’t speak, so they can’t say anything. But if they could speak, they would never tell you they didn’t love you. You scratch their ears, for heaven’s sake! Of course they love you.

2. “Please stop calling me those annoying baby names.”
You can name your cat Muffin or Binky and it won’t care. And when you make up weird nicknames, like Midget and Bibbet, they can’t protest.

3. “PLAY WITH ME!”
Dogs are really annoying and always want attention. Cats don’t really care what you do, as long as you let them lay in the sun and/or on your pillow.

4. “I’ll call you.”
Cats can’t pick phones up, so this one kinda goes without saying. Plus, how weird would it be to answer the phone and hear a bunch of meowing?

5. “That sweater totally doesn’t go with those boots.”
Cats, if they were human, would have amazing fashion sense. But they aren’t human, so…basically, they can’t talk. Plus, they don’t care what you wear as long as they can shed all over it.

6. “Stop eating so much, it’ll go straight to your hips.”
Cats don’t care what you eat, as long as you cuddle them. Honestly, they probably like it when your hips are a little extra-squishy.

7. “No, I don’t dance.”
There’s never been anything more annoying than a guy who can’t or won’t dance. Your cat, however, doesn’t mind if you pick him/her up and dance with him in the kitchen. So go on, turn on your old record of Danke Schoen and dance away.

8. “Why haven’t you bathed in three days?”
Because if a cat thinks you smell bad, it’ll just nap until you take a bath.

Cat ladies unite! We’re all in this together! Or rather, alone in our houses with our 6 cats…

On Feminism


Dear Men,

You can open the door for me. You can pay for my dinner. You can walk me home at night. You can carry me over puddles (do people still do that?).  And anyone who won’t let you is off her rocker.

Every human being on the planet wants independence, even those who think they don’t. Grownups don’t ask people to pick out their clothes every day, live with them at all times, enslave them, etc etc. Once you’re past the age of 16, you don’t want people helping you with every little thing you have to do. But there is a line I draw between independence and self-righteousness. Why in the name of  Gandalf’s burning bra would I get mad at you for being nice to me? Yeah, I bloody well will walk through the door before you, because the people inside probably want to see my pretty face, not your balding head.
Just kidding. But really…

As a woman, I want to make my own living, have my own ideas, and be independent of men (and other women…and my family). But I also want to be taken care of. Opening doors and walking me home at night is how you (men) show me that you care.
I want to write my way to the top, but it doesn’t mean I want people to let me get there simply because I’m a woman. I will make no excuses for my frailties…because I do have frailties, but it doesn’t mean that as a whole I am frail. I can do things on my own. I will not ask you (men) to help me out if I don’t need it. But when I do, I’ll expect you to be there (smiling and looking handsome) to give me a hand.

I want to wear short skirts. I want to look beautiful, and I want people to tell me so. I understand that wearing short skirts and being attractive have certain benefits and drawbacks. I understand that I am more likely to get whistled at by creepy men on the street when I wear short skirts than when I wear a potato sack and a bag over my head. However, I also expect men to keep it in their pants and contain themselves when I walk by and don’t look completely ugly. If I can walk by an attractive man without calling out and/or whistling, you (men) can too. At the same time, I am completely aware that I have no right to complain if I get called out for looking like a total tramp.

In a time when I have more rights than any of my female ancestors, I’m thankful for the sacrifices feminists made for me. I’m thankful that women were risking everything to call for women’s rights. I’m proud of what those women did for our society, and I’m glad that women are still working hard for my rights as an individual. But I’d like to stop being put into the category of “first woman to do this” and “second woman to do that.” As someone once said (but I forget who they were), it’s time for people to stop counting how many women have achieved things.

I am not a feminist. I am also not a child or an idiot. It’s time that extreme feminists realize that allowing people to do things for me does not mean I am weak, controllable, or unable to do those things for myself.  

So men, I am a person first and foremost. I am not strictly a woman. With that in mind, I expect to be treated as your equal. I also expect you to tell me to shut up if I get angry when you treat me nicely. There is nothing wrong with you holding a door open for me; I promise I will not slap you if you do. But promise me that if I want to open the door for you sometime, you’ll let me.

Sincerely,

Cappy

How to Put Your Foot in Your Mouth


Step 1: Post this on your blog. Because nothing says “I am in total control of the things I say and never put my foot in my mouth” better than writing about how Elvis fans just need to get over his death – and posting it on the 33rd anniversary of the day he died.

Step 2: Ask overweight women if they’re pregnant.
I actually haven’t done this. It’s one of the few stupid things I haven’t said/asked, but I know of plenty of people who have. So just don’t ask anyone if they’re pregnant. Women in the grocery store don’t need to be asked when their baby is due, especially if their baby is, in reality, just a food baby or something. For all you know, you could be asking an obese, infertile woman when her baby’s due, causing her to be the saddest woman on the planet because a) she is overweight and b) she can’t have the baby she’s always wanted because she’s infertile. Sad. Don’t make people sad.

Step 3: Talk about girls to their boyfriends.
This can go a couple ways.
A) You are a guy and talk to another guy about how hot that girl over there is. You don’t know that the other guy is her boyfriend. You are informed of this by a swift kick to the face by boyfriend man.
B) You are a girl and really like a guy. You decide to show him how much better you are than that girl over there, so you trash talk her. You then find out that no, he is not single and yes, you are a prize fool.
C) This is a slight variation on part A, in that you talk to a guy about how many times you’ve gotten it on with that girl over there. You are not made aware that the guy is her boyfriend because he’s silently plotting ways to kill you slowly and painfully. If I were you, I’d invest in some serious pepper spray and/or a machete, because at this point your foot is so far in your mouth that you’re practically digesting it.

Step 4: Randomly decide you love someone and then tell them.
I haven’t done this. I swear. Okay, I’ve totally done this…about a million times in 7th grade. Those were hard times. Hard times that will NEVER be mentioned again under penalty of death, okay? I’m pouring my soul out to the entire blogging world, so just cut me some slack.

Hey Hey, It’s My Hormones!


Owie.

So. I am a girl. I am a girl with working body parts and organs and whatnot, so I inevitably get the painters in during “that time of the month.” This is where all male readers will freak out and exit the page, am I right? It’s actually not that big of a deal – I have no problem discussing it, and without it no one would be born. And without baby humans, what would the world be? A lot less loud, probably, and eventually, once humans no longer existed, global warming would reverse itself and on and on and on. But enough of that.

I think someone is shoving a knife into my uterus. This is REALLY where the male readers exit the page. Sorry…but really. It hurts. No amount of midol/advil/ibuprofen/whatever will make it stop. I am practically curled into a ball as I write this and every once in a while I writhe in pain. Yes. I writhe. I have succumbed to the power of the period.

I am hormonal. I am the queen of the hormones. I am so emotional that if anyone speaks to me tonight I will probably erupt into tears. I am so hormonal that I am writing a post about my period on my public blog that people read, so apparently, I am so hormonal that my judgement is impared. Are hormones like vodka? Should I not drive?

My back hurts. My front hurts. My head hurts. I feel sensitive. Help.

I don’t even want children! What is the point of this? Is 17 too early for menopause?