more proof that girls are weird
Right now I’m so sick of myself that I could die.
Do you ever get that feeling? Like you want to just take a break from being yourself and go away for a while? This is happening to me right now, and I’m sure that it’s because I’m the big bloated queen.
Ugh, I just don’t want to be in my body anymore. I wish the voice in my head was quiet. I wish the jeans on my ass were looser. I wish the craving for sweets was gone.
This is the part of my month when I really appreciate what people who live with women go through. Mad props. Y’all are some patient folk.
“An example, pamie, please!”
THE MENSTRUAL CHRONICLES
Day One: Birth Control Pills Left–3. Jeans– your favorite pair that show off her hips. Hair– curled, cute barrettes.
Menstrual Girl wakes up all smiles. Kisses you Good Morning. Asks you to pick up dinner and maybe a movie. She goes to work. You call her at work to ask how her day is going. She complains that she’s been busier than usual, doesn’t really feel like working anymore, would rather be at home in bed with you getting your groove on. She comes home, smiling that you remembered dinner. Movie is left untouched due to bedroom antics.
Day Two: Birth Control Pills Left–2. Jeans– forget it, she’s wearing a skirt today. Hair– pulled into complicated twist.
Menstrual Girl gets up early and begins cleaning the bedroom while you are still sleeping. You are happy to have the closet cleaned, but complain a little when she starts vacuuming. She tells you “Well, someone’s gotta clean around here, dammit.” You pull pillow over head and count the minutes until she leaves for work. She calls you from work to ask if you can pick up some beer on the way home… and a bag of potato chips.
You come home to find her eating a Big Mac and watching “ER.” The house is immaculate, and all laundry is done. You offer to do dishes after dinner, she tells you not to bother. She tells you her day was pretty bad and asks you if you would rub her feet. You rub her feet and kiss her toes. She smiles. Bedroom antics. Afterwards, she rubs your back until you fall asleep.
Day Three: Birth Control Pills Left–1. Jeans– Your favorite pair of cargo shorts. Hair– twisted up into clip.
Menstrual Girl begins day by throwing alarm clock across the room and shouting, “Fuck that shit.” In the shower you hear more expletives, and she runs out of the bathroom with toilet paper stuck to the razor cuts on her knees. She wakes you up to ask you where you hid her shoes. She begins throwing things onto the bed looking for shoes. She changes outfit to match sneakers.
She leaves, fifteen minutes late for work, and somehow it’s all your fault. She calls you from work to ask you to pick up milk and Coke and bread and dinner. You ask if she needs any Midol. She hangs up on you.
You come home to find her furiously doing the dishes. You kiss her cheek and try to hug her, but she flings the video from the other day in your face. “Is this just going to walk itself back to the store?” she asks you. You say, “Well, we haven’t watched it yet.”
“For seventeen dollars, Six Days, Seven Dollars better be fucking Citizen Kane.” You go read a book in the other room. She follows you in, puts her head in your lap and asks what’s wrong. “How come you never want to spend any time with me?” she asks.
You tell her you’re really tired, and go to sleep.
Day Four: Birth Control Pills: 0. Jeans: The older ones that you hate with a hole in the knee. Hair: Ponytail.
Menstrual Girl wakes up and leaves without so much as a good-bye. You call her at work, but she’s too busy to talk to you. You come home to find her watching Terms of Endearment and sobbing hysterically. She wants you to hold her and say you’d never treat her like Flap treated Debra Winger. She asks you if she died, would you see anyone else. You tell her that eventually you might. She says, “Who? That bitch from the office?” She storms off. Bedroom door slams.
You follow Menstrual Girl and tell her through the door that you don’t even like that girl from the office and you don’t know how she got your home number. Menstrual Girl throws blanket out bedroom door. You sleep on futon. You hear her on the phone to her friend Maggie, “Can you believe he said that? I know! I know! Well, I thought that’s what he would have said! I know! I know! NO! Really? Oh my God! No! Yeah? Oh my god! I know! NO!”
The futon isn’t so bad.
Day Five: Birth Control Pills: 0. Jeans: Baggy, baggy, baggy. Hair: pulled up in your Pittsburgh Steelers cap.
Menstrual Girl wakes you up with a kiss in the morning. She’s made breakfast. She’s sorry she snapped at you last night. You tell her you understand what she’s going through. She asks what you meant by that comment. You say nothing. She throws her breakfast in the sink and leaves for work.
You call Menstrual Girl at work. She is crying because the copier wouldn’t work this morning and she had to fix a jam and broke a nail. You offer sympathy. She tells you you’re the best man in the world. You ask if maybe you’d have bedroom antics tonight. She says in her sexiest voice, “If you’re good.”
You make dinner for Menstrual Girl (or at least order out for some good Chinese Food) and wait at home with a bottle of wine and a movie. She comes home and slams the door. Someone at work made a comment that maybe she was being a little bitchy today. Menstrual Girl writes in her journal for an hour. She comes back out into living room where she finds you drunk off cheap wine and crying over Babe. She kisses your face, wipes your tears and takes you back for Bedroom Antics.
Day Six: D-DAY. Jeans: Sweatpants. Hair: Fuck you.
Menstrual Girl is cramping. You get her medicine. She calls in sick from work. She is upset when you leave her to go to work. You call periodically to see if she’s okay. You bring her Tomato Basil soup from La Madeline for lunch. You are her hero. You rub her tummy and watch Oprah with her. She falls asleep. You go run errands (return the film that was never watched), and come home to find her going through your old photos (that she must have found deep in a closet somewhere) and demanding to know who the women are in each picture. When you’ve forgotten some of their names, she is furious. She tells you that you might as well just sleep with that girl at the office if Menstrual Girl means that little to you. You assure her that she’s your baby doll, your one and only. Menstrual Girl collapses into your arms, sobbing hysterically. She asks you if she looks fat. You suggest watching Inside the Actors Studio with Sally Field even though you’ve seen it seven times. She asks you to stop avoiding the question. You pretend to fall asleep watching the picture.
Menstrual Girl wakes you up and demands a back rub. You oblige.
Menstrual Girl orders pizza and eats three-fourths of it. She then begins to cry because she is too fat. She tells you not to look at her, and to just leave her now and get it over with. You go to bed.
“So early?” she asks. You mumble something that doesn’t really have words. “I heard that,” she says.
You wake up in the middle of the night to a horrible smell. You find menstrual girl sitting up in bed writing in her journal. You ask her if she farted. She looks at you with dagger eyes and says it must be the cat. You look at the cat, and he shrugs at you. You fall back asleep.
Day Seven: Still Under Renovations. Jeans: baggy. Hair: braids.
Menstrual Girl has decided to take a couple of days off of work to redecorate the living room. She calls you at work to ask if you prefer tartan or floral. You ask if tartan is something the dentist cleans off your teeth. Menstrual Girl asks what’s up your ass. You tell her you were making a joke. She tells you that her life is not a joke and if you insist on laughing at her, you can go to hell. She tells you that you are out of kitty litter and you need to pick it up. You go to the store and buy some porn.
You come home to the living room covered in paint tarps and Menstrual Girl in your favorite T-shirt. You ask why your shirt is covered in white paint and she snaps at you that it is “Off White.” You say, “I wish it was ‘Off You.’” Menstrual Girl wipes her paintbrush off on her sleeve.
The rest of the day you spend painting the trim of the doorway listening to Tori Amos and Jewel.
You fall asleep later wondering if you will ever have sex again.
Day Eight: The Gusher. Jeans: your shorts again. Hair: paint streaked and in a ponytail.
Menstrual Girl sleeps all day and leaves the house in complete redecorating hell. You trip over the coffee table that was never there before and cannot find your keys. You wake the grouch to ask where they are and she points to the new key rack that she made the day before. It is the only time for the rest of your life that your keys will be on that key rack in the kitchen.
You come home to find Menstrual Girl on-line looking at vacations. She asks why you never do anything together anymore. You say you can’t do Cancun right now, but how does dinner sound? You take her out to dinner, and you have a fine time. Conversation, laughter, flirting. You come home drunk and giddy and start fooling around on the couch. She initiates bedroom antics. You are drunk enough to agree. She goes to the bathroom to “get ready,” and on your way to the bedroom you see she’s left the door open and you accidentally see her taking out her tampon. When Menstrual Girl returns in a nightgown you inform her that you don’t feel very well– must have been something you ate, and sit in the bathroom until she falls asleep. You crawl into bed quietly and thank the Lord above that you don’t have a uterus.
Day Nine: On the Tail End. Jeans: looking better. Hair: styled.
You wake up to hear Menstrual Girl in the other room on the phone with her mother, complaining that she thinks you may be seeing that girl from the office. She tells her that you have been avoiding her.
You get the silent treatment all morning. You sit on the still unsettled couch and ask if the living room will ever be completed so you can watch the game. She huffs and puffs and hands you the remote control. You turn on sports. She slams the bedroom door to take a nap. You enjoy your hour of solitude. You spend some quality time with your porn.
She wakes up in an incredible mood. She cleans up the living room and you watch her try and hang curtains for half an hour. You notice that suddenly she just can’t seem to balance on a ladder anymore, and she is near tears and looking at you with side glances. You offer to help hang curtains. She hands you a hammer, nails, measuring tape and rod and sits and has a cigarette while you finish hanging the curtains.
Menstrual Girl asks you how come so much of the laundry is yours. She insists you change too much during the day. You inform her that if she didn’t wear so much of your shit, it might be an even distribution of soiled clothing. She throws a pair of your dirty boxer shorts in your face.
Menstrual Girl wants to watch the E! Network. You want to watch ESPN. You end up watching the Lifetime network. You remind yourself you must quit while you are ahead.
Bedroom Antics: She is in the mood. You are in the mood. Lots of cuddling and kissing. She falls asleep. You get up to go sit with your porn and curse the ovaries.
Day Ten: All is normal. Jeans: Your favorite. Hair: Nice.
Menstrual Girl is Your Girl again. She’s just as you remember her. You spend the day together doing your favorite things. You have an afternoon nap together. You go out for dinner and a movie. She asks you that night why you’ve been acting so funny lately. You take a deep breath, and tell her that work has been getting to you. She gives you a “Poor baby” and pulls you into her chest for a hug. You look at Camera Two and give a thumbs up.