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An oldy but a goody: Hair Removal Confession

August 16, 2009 in Uncategorized by OSO | 2 comments

Based on the stats, it seems y’all most appreciate the posts wherein I describe my humiliating moments. Thanks? I think? For those of you who don’t know, I blogged privately for six years before launching this blog, and I decided to pull a post from that old blog that I thought you might appreciate. Some of you will remember it and cringe; others who haven’t yet been exposed to my uncanny knack for injuring myself will cringe, then probably point and laugh. Enjoy!

Hair Removal Confession (Originally posted March 2008)

I was planning to go for a swim today at the JCC, but once it started snowing, I decided that the last thing I wanted to do was strip down and throw my lily-white, shivering self into a pool of water measuring less than 85 degrees. However, in anticipation of swimming, I made it a point to engage in all of the requisite hair removal activities that women in our culture are subjected to. Including, you know…ahem, trimming and whatnot. And honestly, I don’t mind doing those things too much. Unless something goes horribly awry. This morning’s rituals were uneventful, but it did bring to mind a certain morning not long ago that didn’t end so happily. It was right before my daughter was born, and I decided that in anticipation of childbirth, I needed to make sure things were, shall we say, manageable in the baby-birthing region. I figured there was going to be BLOOD! GORE! AMNIOTIC FLUID! And I didn’t want things to be unnecessarily messy. Now, keep in mind that I was eight months pregnant, looking more like Melville’s white whale than not. Keep in mind that I also couldn’t actually make visual contact with the anatomical area in question. Keep in mind that I had scissors and pregnancy brain.

Initially things went along quite well (although in retrospect, I’m not sure how I know this since I couldn’t see what the devil I was doing), but then came the fateful snip that took with it a significant chunk of skin. There was that stomach-dropping moment when I realized what had happened but my brain hadn’t registered pain yet. Then there was nothing but blood, screaming, and searing agony. My poor husband rushed into the bathroom when he heard the shrieking and streams of choice words, thinking that I was giving birth right there in the shower. Instead, I had to explain to him, between staunching the bleeding and moans of agony, that my own idiocy had resulted in a painful, bleeding crotch wound. He made the wise decision to simply nod and ask if I needed anything rather than invoke further wrath by laughing out loud at me, but I’m certain I saw a smirk on his face as he left the room. Once the bleeding stopped, I decided things down there were good enough, and I had enough sense to quit before doing any further damage. What’s worse is that once I did give birth a short while later, I KNOW everyone in the birthing room HAD to have seen it, but between contractions and trying to forcefully eject a baby from my girly bits, I didn’t exactly have all the time in the world to explain myself. Nothing like a little private humiliation gone public to keep me humble.

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Not Your Average PMS Post: NEW! With BONUS TIPS for MEN!

August 10, 2009 in Uncategorized by OSO | 6 comments

Oy vey, has this past week been a roller coaster ride. And not one of those fun ones that you want to go on again and again, but the terrifying one that makes you scream like a little girl and then vomit on the sixteen year old pimple-faced cotton candy vendor’s shoes immediately upon exit.

I’ll be honest, it’s largely fueled by an egregiously defiant and raging case of PMS that won’t quit. (Sorry, gentlemen readers, but it had to be said, and if that made you uncomfortable, well you may want to skip the rest of this post.) My poor, poor husband came home to hear me tell Arch Support over the phone “I just want to THROTTLE SOMEONE. Then go to sleep. And maybe cry a little bit, but MOSTLY THROTTLE SOMEONE.” No, he didn’t run out the door, but he did gently question me from a safe distance before finally taking off his shoes and entering the house.

And my first thought was that I should just stay silent about the shitstorm that’s been raging in and around me. There’s no need to share this, or bring anyone else into the fray. No one REALLY needs to know.

Then I thought, to hell with that! This is my life, and I should be honest and tell people what’s up. That is, after all, why I’m writing here, right (and hopefully why you’re reading)? I don’t need to write about it for sympathy, or to make my readers miserable, too (believe me, one of us feeling this way is one too many). I need to write about it to say hey, I’m human, I suffer from the human condition, and I get irritable and not so nice when my body starts mixing its toxic monthly hormonal cocktail. We all have our problems, this is one of mine. Period. (Okay, that pun was truly unintentional, but it was too bad to delete. And it is one of the first things that’s made me laugh in several days.)

Although PMS is the butt of many a joke (and really, when you’re dealing with a body that works EVERY DAMN MONTH to get you pregnant, then throws a biological temper tantrum when you DON’T actually get pregnant, oh and because it’s REALLY vindictive it then makes you BLEED for a week to boot, then starts right back at it again, what can you do but try to joke about it), it can make a woman feel just thoroughly miserable. So, ladies, if you’re PMS-ing, eat something delicious. Husbands, boyfriends, partners, and gentlemen, cut us some slack already, will ya? Oh, and stay out of our way. But don’t be emotionally distant because we need the support. But don’t say anything stupid. And don’t say anything too smart for that matter. Just don’t talk. But be supportive. Silently. And don’t try to hug us. Unless we want you to. Which we’ll tell you. Telepathically. And buy lots of our craving foods for us. But don’t store them in the house before PMS hits because they won’t sound good to us. Just show up with them as soon as the first twinge of irritability hits. Which should be roughly 25-35 days after the last twinge of irritability hit. Really, this is not that hard; I don’t know why you get so cranky.

So here’s what I want to know. How’s your past week been? Has it been craptacular, too, for reasons hormonal or otherwise? I want to hear about it. Link me to your posts, or write about it in the comments. Has this been the best week of your life? Well, I want to hear about it, too, because if so we need to celebrate with a virtual martini. Lord knows I could use one.

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