The Joys of Womanhood

Being a woman has countless  many  some  few  ONE perk.  They are  It is:  I don’t ALWAYS have to take out the garbage.

Screen Shot 2013-02-09 at 7.03.40 PM

Beyond that…I am stumped.   What, exactly, are the joys of womanhood?

I know what I am supposed to say.   Woman is the most beautiful, amazing and unique creature in the universe.  Woman can conceive, incubate and give life.  Woman nurture and shape the human species. Woman is earth. Woman is light. Woman is peace.  Woman is love.

earth motherThe Ideal

Now that we’ve gotten that happy nonsense out of the way, let’s talk turkey.  Being a woman is, sometimes, akin to being given a burning bag of dog crap.

haggard womanThe Reality

Let’s start with the obvious:  CHILDBIRTH.  I have never been through it, but I saw the video and it didn’t look like something I was interested in attempting.

Blood, pain, goop, and in the end you wind up with something that screams, projectile vomits and emits exploding poop for months, sometimes years on end.

Baby MontageLooks fun!

No thanks, I’ll pass.

If men had to go through pregnancy, give birth and breastfeed, you wouldn’t be reading this.   Why?  Because earth’s population would be ZERO.

population zeroHello?

Seriously, men cannot handle that kind of pain!  If my husband has a big lunch and he complains so much I want to gag him and put him in the basement.

gagged in basementI’m stufffffffffffed

A few years back, I had two male friends who both had ingrown toenails.  Oddly, I had one too.   They both came back from the podiatrist, limping like Virgil Kint, with their feet bandaged, wearing sandals, in the middle of winter, because it hurt TOO MUCH to even THINK about putting on a sock or shoe.  They continued to wear sandals for a full week, as the pain was “EXCRUTIATING.”

bruce footphoto credit: Bruce Barta, Blizzard of 2013

Ohhhh Crap.  What am I in for?

I went to the same podiatrist.  I was panicked.  I didn’t want to wear sandals in January!!  I relayed my nervousness to the Doctor.  He told me to “Relax.”  The doctor is about to assault me with a tiny hammer and chisel, but his merely saying “relax” puts me totally at ease.  Yyyyup.

surgical instrumentsSurgical weaponry

Approximately 45 seconds later, the Doctor said “Okay, you’re all set.”  Wait.  When, exactly, was the pain supposed to start?  And where was my big bandage?  I got a teeny Band-Aid®.  Do you know the one I’m talking about?  The little circle bandage that no one ever uses.

bandaidThat one

I put my sock on.

I put my shoe on.

I was walking normally.

My male co-workers were certain I did NOT have the same procedure they had.  Trust me, I did.  I know because I asked.  As it turns out, the consensus from the medical community is, my co-workers are two cream puffs with low pain tolerance.

Topic #2: Periods.  Again, men could not handle this type of discomfort and inconvenience ONCE, much less every month for decades of their lives.

I have a good friend who, sadly, was diagnosed with ovarian cancer and had to have a hysterectomy at the age of 36.  I went to the hospital with her.  I knew she was having surgery, but I wasn’t aware it could be cancer and the thought of a hysterectomy had never entered my mind.  When the doctor came out to inform me of her situation, I was devastated for her.  I cried.  I cried because I knew she wanted children.  I realize she can still have children through other means and /or methods, but I was sad for her, nonetheless.


My thoughts immediately went to God- which is odd because normally in times of crisis, my thoughts immediately go to Krispy Kremes.

krispy kremesSpecifically the one in the top right corner

I asked God to take away her suffering and give it to me.  Well, God did.  I don’t know how much you know about God, but TRUST ME, he loves to “punk” people.

Since that day, my “flow” has been like the flow of TWO women… on blood thinners!!!  Thanks, Funny Guy!  I buy special Horse Tampons- only sold at Target…in the “agriculture section.”

horse tamponNeighhhhhh

I use these in conjunction with various maxi pads, which I weave together with Tyvek and a Red Solo Cup, to make a quilt.

maxi pads

A quilt with wings.

quiltThe darn thing’s got wings

I’m a Menstrual Cycle MacGyver.

macgyverI can fix it.  I just need an orange peel and a paper clip

This is the level of equipment required to handle the carnage that is my monthly curse.   At my yearly gynecological visit, the doctor informed me, if my “flow” was too much to handle, I could elect to have male hormones injected and /or have my uterus cauterized.   Just what I always wanted– a lush, flowing man-beard and a burning bush!!

beard bushMy future

Topic #3: Feminine  Foundations.  Undergarments, if you will.   Thanks to my Granny Grace, I was blessed with porn boobs at the age of 10.  I was gigantic.

porn boobsThis is what fell out of MY family tree

My boobs were so big, people felt like they could touch them, without asking, as if they were their own entity.  What? Why?!  I have no idea, but those things were colossal .  My boobs had their own zip code.

When I was 20 years old I had breast reduction surgery.   My mother had passed away the year before, so arranging this surgery with my DAD was super-uncomfortable, as you can imagine.

Post-surgery, my friends called me:  Frankenboob.

So, great, yippeee!!! I have smaller boobs.

Except now, 20-some years later, I am blessed with a phenomenon I call “side boob.”

miley cirusGuess again

And I’m not talking about cute side-boob like Miley Cyrus shows at The Grammys- I’m talking about- What is that?  Where did it come from?  HOW DO I CONTROL IT?!- side boob.   It looks like I am carrying a French baguette under each arm.  T

french baguettesHot and Crusty

here is a show on the Discovery Network dedicated to the tracking, photographing and eventual capture of my side Boob.   It’s called “Hunting Honey Boob Boob.”

Screen_Shot_2013-02-09_at_8.12.45_PM-2It’s a real show, y’all

And bra fittings?  Women who perform bra fittings (and I’m not talking about the 32AA chicks at Victoria’s Secret) are a breed of their own.

bra fitterShow me your tits

As a rule, they are heavy set, mustached, thick-accented-Eastern-Europeans, and they can’t wait to get their hands on your boobs.  When I was a teenager, my mother would bring me to the “Old Lady Underwear Store” (not its actual name, in case you were trying to Google it) to visit “The Booby Lady.”  She made me look small.  This woman had two Hindenburgs attached to her chest.  I got whacked with those things, more than once, while she tried to shackle me into my 36DDD rhinoceros harness.

My sister lives in Brooklyn, and is also blessed the “Giant Juggs.”  I recently went to a bra store there.  I was told they know their way around a boob.   The owner has been sewing bras since she was 8 years old.  She was manhandling boobs before she HAD boobs.    I was literally two feet inside the front door when the owner was tearing my shirt off and feeling me up.

booby lady

 Seriously, she could have at least OFFERED to buy me a drink first?!?!   15 minutes later, I left the store $350 in the hole and immediately placed a call to Law & Order SVU.

Screen Shot 2013-02-09 at 8.30.07 PM

Pantyhose, Spanx, Underwire Bras, Girdles, Thongs:  INVENTED BY SATAN.

Final Topic: Men.  If men had to deal with men, again– we would be at population zero.  I love my husband dearly but, outside of his career, he has minimal ability to learn new things.  At work, he is a genius.  He invents stuff and writes ground-breaking computer code, he is admired and revered.   At home, I might as well be raising a non-English-speaking toddler.

For years, he would put his dirty dishes on the counter.  Dish after dish, encrusted with food, left on the counter mere inches from the empty dishwasher.

dirty dishes

I begged.  I pleaded.  I yelled.  I cried.  Six years in, I did manage to get him to put his dishes in the sink.  Baby steps, I figured.  The dishwasher is only one step further than the sink.  Perhaps, with proper training, one day we could get there.

sink dishwaherThey couldn’t be closer

I put in the time, taking him to “Husband Obedience Class,” hoping to, one day, reach my our goal:  put his dishes in the dishwasher without any wifely intervention.

I tried Scooby Snax, I sprayed him with a water bottle, I shook a coffee can filled with pennies at him, I called him “Good Boy,”  I even rubbed his nose in the dirty plates- nothing worked.    The answer was always the same “I’ll wash them later. “   Just to be clear?  “Later” never comes.

Finally, after having to clean one too many bowls encrusted with pasta and sauce, I snapped.  “Why, Tony? Why????”  I wailed, “why can’t you put your dishes in the dishwasher???”

“I JUST CAN’T DO IT, OKAY?!?!?!”  he yelled.

I burst out laughing.  I had my answer.  He just can’t do it.  Sounds silly, doesn’t it?  He just can’t do it.  But there are things I can’t do despite tremendous effort, like pee standing up and math.    We all have our limits, and Tony’s limit, apparently, is the invisible line between the sink and the dishwasher.   I can’t be mad at him, he has admitted defeat.  The dishwasher is his Achilles heel.

And why would I be mad??  As a woman, I have so many other wonderful gifts to celebrate.  I’d list them here, but unfortunately I need to take out the garbage and head to Target to restock my horse tampon supply.

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