Jun 18, 2014

Leaky

If you've been following along at home, you will probably be aware of two things: 1. I was recently waiting for a repair guy, and 2. if something interesting happens, I will tell you about my period. (That was your warning. If you find either of those facts boring and/or offensive, stop reading now.)

So a few months ago, I bought a DivaCup to aid in my body's superfun transition to menopause because my period was getting out of control. I'm talking slasher-film bloody here, but this ain't no corn syrup, friends. Period Monday was a goddamn nightmare. From the DivaCup website: "The DivaCup conveniently holds one full ounce of menstrual flow (30 ml). As the average woman only flows approximately 1 to 2 ounces (30-60 ml) per cycle, The DivaCup is the ideal menstrual solution to care for your cycle. In fact, many women are surprised at the amount of flow and expected that there would be much more!" I overflowed that cup twice in one hour on the first day of my cycle. Do the math. That's a lot of fucking blood.

Tuesday was pretty normal. Nothing out of the ordinary, although I did remove, clean, and reinsert the stupid thing 8 times just to be on the safe side. If there is one thing I've come to expect these past few months, however, it's that my period likes to fuck with me. And fuck with me it did.

Today I was sitting on the couch waiting for the fridge repair guy to arrive, watching the latest episode of Parks and Recreation and eating a bowl of mini ravioli, when two things happened simultaneously. The first thing was that I saw the repair van pull into the driveway. The second thing was that I felt a gush and a gurgle down below. A quick hand down my pants confirmed blood.

Unless you have a uterus and sometimes shove a soft plastic cup up there to contain menstrual blood, you will be unable to imagine the peculiar blurpy feel of blood oozing past the plastic in your vagina and spilling into your panties that I felt at that moment.

I was faced with a dilemma: do I run to the bathroom, knowing that the repair guy would be ringing the doorbell any second, and knowing that the particular brand of mess I had to clean up would take considerably longer than his patience? Sitting around waiting for the repair guy to show up is a drag, and I didn't want him to leave. Or do I answer the door while little bloopy fart sounds are coming out of my cunt as blood spills into my crotch, possibly down my legs? (I was wearing shorts.)

I opted for the latter, after hurriedly throwing a pantiliner down my pants and washing the blood from my fingers. Ah yes! Hello! Pleasantry pleasantry! Right this way! Here's the fridge, there's a leak back there! Excuse me for a moment, will you? I'll be right back!

I used the basement bathroom in case the embarrassing queef noises continued. Removed the overflowing cup, rinsed, reinserted, wiped the blood from the toilet seat, flushed, washed my hands. When I exited the bathroom, the repair guy was shouting down the stairs for my assistance. There was no changing my soiled outfit at present, apparently. Thank Christ for dark denim.

The service call lasted less than half an hour, and the fellow was pleasant and efficient. Both the leak in the fridge and the leak in my cunt have been remedied. For the moment, anyway.


 






Adrian the Butcher

Adrian the butcher always picks the best cuts for me.
 
He is a big man, ruddy of complexion. His eyes are a disarmingly pale blue, and his hair is white beneath his white cap, although we are probably the same age. (Is there an almost-albino gene?) His apron is stained pink with the blood of a thousand slaughtered cows.
 
He chooses the most-perfectly-marbled of striploins, the meatiest racks of lamb, the savouriest of sausages, and the plumpest of pork chops, weighs them, wraps them in  brown paper. We talk about music and the concerts that are coming up, and once he showed me cellphone pictures of him with KISS backstage at a show and I was suitably impressed.