The Vagina Dialogues, Day 1: How to Treat a Gunshot Wound to the Coot
- The Vagina Dialogues, Day 1: How to Treat a Gunshot Wound to the Coot
- The Vagina Dialogues, Day 2: Finding a Comfortable Egg-Laying Position
- The Vagina Dialogues, Day 3: The Manic-Depressive Blizkrieg
(“The Vagina Dialogues:” A Menstrual Series in 3 Days)
As my Vagina awakes one morning from uneasy dreams, it finds itself transformed in its bed into a gigantic bottle of Heinz 57.
Not the plastic, easy-squeeze type. I’m talkin’ the glass kind, that you have to viciously pummel for several minutes before it will vengefully blast a titanic volume of ketchup in and around the general vicinity of your fry basket.
Oh, Jesus Christ! I’ve been shot! shouts my Vagina, rousing me and the rest of my reproductive organs from a peaceful slumber.
It is still dark out, and, judging by the position of the moon on the horizon, it is 4:38 a.m. There may or may not be a crime scene in my pants. I don’t know. I’ll sleep on it.
What are you doing!? my distraught Vagina protests.
Go back to sleep, I instruct. (Silently, though, with my mind. I only communicate with my vagina telepathically, and not aloud, obviously, because I don’t want to wake Glenn. And because that would be crazy.)
Someone massacred a circus down here, you sick fuck. I’m not going back to sleep! caterwauls my Vagina.
It’s a red badge of courage. Now, go to sleep. I close my eyes and do my best to ignore the tortured sobbing.
The Vagina speaks the truth! interjects my Cervix. I have been baptized in the sanguine rivers of hell! WE MUST ALL REPENT!
Menstruation is a curiously spiritual occasion for my Cervix. I continue to feign sleep because acknowledging it only reinforces the behavior.
Several minutes of violent limb-flinging later, I lay curled in the fetal position while my Uterus thrashes about spitefully, shouting, MISSION ABORT! MISSION ABORT!
The Uterus is bitterly resentful of my continued insistence on not producing a fetus. It makes a huge monthly spectacle of tearing down the “nursery room wallpaper” — it’s words, not mine — which it then puts right back up even though we’ve talked about the dangers of counting our zygotes before they’re fertilized.
Around 4:55 a.m., I lose my shit.
FINE, I think, angrily kicking off the covers and prowling into the bathroom. Turning the lights on is for pansies and people without crippling astigmatisms, so I stumble around in the dark, navigating via ultrasonic echoes like a tired, ornery bat looking for a goddamn bat-tampon.
At approximately 5:07, I discover a Tampax lurking in the depths of my favorite fanny-pack and thrust it triumphantly into the air as a victorious shower of gum wrappers and unidentifiable purse crumbs rains down around me.
[UPDATE: I have since discovered the solution to this problem. After trying and then forgetting to do it, like, six times, I finally bought TWO boxes of tampons on a single restocking mission, and I put one in the guest bathroom for my lady guests and their own hysterical lady parts. So, now, on the first day of my period, I do myself a huge favor, but then outsmart myself.]
Cardboard applicator!? moans the Vagina. I didn’t even know they made those anymore!
Tampons are a sin! my zealot-Cervix frets. We should be atoning for using contraception, not…is that a cardboard applicator? Are we in a truck stop restroom?