Hair Barrettes

You guys, I was totally going to write something last week and instead I got shots in my back and was an irritable sweaty rage monster and had to hide myself from the world. Like the Phantom of the Opera. Only without the kick ass face mask and broadway musical score.

Image result for phantom of the opera

But I am feeling better and awaiting my second round of shots so I’m ready to share a story of emotional heartbreak from my childhood.

When I was a kid my little sister, J, and I shared everything. A room, a bed, a pillow at times. But the one thing we hated sharing was our toys. Is there anything worse than sharing toys as a child?

Okay, yes.

But as a kid, that shit is the fucking worst. And my sister and I fought constantly over…well…basically everything.

There was one thing we seemed to fight over more than anything else though. Our hair clips.

These EXACT ones!!! I’m not going to lie, I moaned when I saw this picture.

Our collection of them was extensive and impressive. You guys know what I’m talking about. Little plastic hair barettes.

I don’t know what they look like now. But when we were kids we had everything. There were days of the week in multiple colors. Clips with puppies and kittens. Glittery gel clips. Clips with hearts and stars. The more traditional bow and ribbon style clips. And, best of all, rainbow clips!

It was a cornucopia of cheap plastic and tiny rows of gripping teeth.

We were obsessed with them. An outfit was not complete without matching hair clips. And god help you if we both wanted to wear the same ones on the same day.

These images are making my heart ache

We kept them stored first in a toy sized plastic garbage can and then eventually in a kaboodle. Do you guys remember kaboodles? They were like tackle boxes for little girls. I am not even joking when I say I would have one right now if I found one.

My father always has very long grey hair growing up. In fact, my father looked like Jerry Garcia. He looked so much like Jerry Garcia that my mother once bought a Grateful Dead bumper sticker and I thought it was of my father somehow.

This is basically a portrait of my father

My mother laughed at me for that for about three weeks. Like I would have known who the Grateful Dead were at that age. I was a 14 year old honor student, not a stoner college freshman.

Anyway, my father would get drunk and watch football on Sundays and my sister and I would sit behind the couch and try to put every clip in his hair that we could. He wound up looking like some sort of creepy old man Medusa.

It was fun.

I don’t remember the exact fight. But sometime around the age of 9 my sister and I got into a massive fight over a specific hair clip. I’m going to guess it was the rainbow one. I always had a thing for rainbows.

My father confiscated the barrettes.

In my house confiscation was like death. It was the equivalent of taking the aging family dog to a farm upstate.

I don’t know what happened to the things he confiscated. But we never saw those barrettes again.

I still have not emotionally recovered. Those barrettes man. They were plastic gold.

And, because I love all of you so much, here is a rare picture of me at that age. With a barrette in my hair. Also you need to know this outfit consisted of a pastel leopard print button up, an acid washed denim skirt, fucking SUSPENDERS, and sneakers with socks.

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Blood and Urine

Whew! I am back and ready to talk more about bodily fluids!

 

You guys may be asking yourself what I have been doing for the past month and a half. Well… I finished my novel. Like, finished finished. I turned 31. I got a new job. I made some jewelry. I found some new blogs to creep on that fill me with feminist rage. In short, I’ve been busy.

 

Incidentally, if anyone wants to read my novel and give me feedback please email me. I would appreciate it.

 

And now, to the story!

 

When I was a kid, I shared a room with my sister J. But when I was even younger, like 7ish, I shared a room with J and my brother T. Actually, J and I shared a bed. And a pillow. That’s right, I did not even have my own pillow.

 

One night while we were sleeping (I always made her sleep on the inside because I am a bit claustrophobic) I had a lovely dream. I dreamt I was on the toilet, urinating.

 

Unfortunately, when I woke up, I found that I had peed the bed. The downside of sharing a bed with someone is that if they pee the bed then you get peed on. And J got peed on. A lot. She still reminds me of it sometimes. I imagine it wasn’t as funny to her as it was to me.

 

We had to change the sheets. And mattress pad. And take a bath. All in the middle of the night.

 

I have not peed the bed, or myself ever since.

 

Until recently. Because I had the Essure procedure last year I have noticed a weakening of my pelvic floor. It is actually very common as women age and especially after giving birth. But mine started a few months after my procedure.

 

Image result for essure springs

The springs all up in my tubes

Basically what happens is that when I have to urinate, it is an emergency. I don’t notice needing to go more frequently, just more urgently.

 

I have had a few close calls where I barely made it to the bathroom on time. And maybe a few times where a few drops came out on the bathroom floor instead of into the toilet bowl. (I know I am coming back strong and with my typical class).

 

Today I was on my period. And for some reason, using my Diva Cup tends to put pressure on my bladder, which does make me have to go more frequently. These two things were the perfect combination for disaster.

 

Image result for diva cup

The cup all up in my vaginal canal

I was sitting on the couch, rewatching Supernatural and minding my own business. I suddenly felt a warm wetness in my underwear. I actually thought my Diva Cup had overflowed and was leaking out into my underwear. It happens sometimes during heavy flow days.

 

I pulled my underwear down to check and saw that I was peeing. I didn’t even feel like I had to go. But there I was, actually peeing myself.

 

I ran to the bathroom. I left a trail of urine like Hansel and Gretel through the forest. Only that wasn’t a trail any woodland creatures would want to follow.

Image result for hansel and gretel breadcrumb trail

Only with urine.

I took a shower and wiped the urine up off my floors. Thankfully they are fake wood and not carpet. I fucking hate carpet, but that is a rant for another time.
Unfortunately,  I had also peed all over my couch. So I cleaned it as best as I could and am now sitting on a towel. Like a sick cat. (Thanks to Debbie for that hilarious phrase.)

The Science of (Bad) Sex

 

Just got back from a nice vacation with my sister and her boyfriend. (who I do like, C!) And she reminded me of a story that deserves to be told to all of you lovely and  patient people.

 

Also inspired by the date I had this weekend with a man who was gorgeous but the worst kisser I have ever experienced in my entire life including both elementary school and the time G burped in my mouth while we were frenching.

 

In high school, I was dating G. The boy I lost my virginity to. Sex with him was consistently bad. He was unimaginative, unadventurous, squeamish, and very shy about his body.

 

We never had oral sex because he didn’t want to. We never even had digital sex (handjobs or fingering) again because he didn’t want to. In fact, there was little to no foreplay. I didn’t even really know what all that was about until the third guy I slept with almost 3 years later.

 

I remember the first time we had sex I was lying there thinking “I don’t get what all this hype is about sex. People risk STDs and pregnancy for THIS?!” It definitely did not seem worth it. And it continued to not seem worth it for the duration of our sexual relationship.

 

We kept doing it, though. I was determined to figure out what the appeal was. My sex drive had stemmed from scientific interest in the process and the desire to understand human emotions/sensations. Plus, I just KNEW there had to be something magical about it.

 

I hate to say it, but at this point, my experience and desire has not changed. I have had mostly bad sex in my life. I feel that most straight men are just not very good in bed. No offense guys, but I have a lot of experience in this area.

 

But once, while I was still in high school and having sex with G, we were hanging out at my house with my little sister, J. She and I shared a room right up until I moved out.

 

I pulled G aside and asked him if he wanted to have sex in my childhood bed. Of course he did, who wouldn’t?

 

So we told my sister we would be upstairs for a while and commenced to getting it on. Now, you would think J would know better than to come upstairs and enter our shared room without knocking.

 

But you would be wrong.

 

She shoved the door open and was privy to a no doubt shocking eyeful of G’s hairy ginger-blonde ass. G and I were doing missionary (what else?) so she was thankfully spared the image of my naked body.

 

She screamed, slammed the door, and ran down stairs to sit on the couch, traumatized. And hopefully having learned an important lesson in knocking when the door is closed.

 

G pulled out immediately as the mood was most definitely unceremoniously halted. But I looked him right in the eye and demanded he get it up again and finish fucking me. And god bless that teenage boy, because he did as he was told.

 

I am a little ashamed that I had just wanted to finish. But in the name of science, research, and discovery; I really wanted to get off.

 

Cardboard Sledding

When I was a kid, we didn’t have cable. Or even a working TV sometimes. We definitely didn’t have video games or cell phones. And nobody I knew did either.

 

Summer meant being outside all day. We would only come inside for food and water. And not always even water because we could always drink that warm, rubbery water from the hose. I’m pretty sure I recently read that it is considered a carcinogen now.

Thanks for the cancer, parents.

I had some friends as a kid that weren’t even allowed inside their own house in the summer. They had to ask permission to go inside, even to pee. And while we were allowed inside at my house, we didn’t ever want to be there.

 

When I was 10 we moved to a small town right next to the ocean. We were one bridge and about two miles away. The bridge was one of those huge ones that the boats traveling down the intercoastal could pass under without anything being raised and lowered.

This is it.

That bridge was a bitch to ride your bike up. I never successfully managed it. But it had these massive embankments leading up to support it. Like four giant hills guarding the bridge.

 

My brother T, sister J and I would go hang out behind the local businesses at the base of the bridge. We would wait till they threw out a few cardboard boxes. Then we would climb into the dumpsters and pull out some nice big pieces of cardboard.

 

On a semi-related note, we also used to play in this giant shipping crate that they used to collect newspapers for recycling. It was literally a steel box full of old newspapers. I have no clue what the draw was, but I remember it being fun. Those were dark and desperate times for entertainment.

We would climb in and out through the donation holes. Until my mother found out and we got in trouble.

We would rush away from those empty lots and dirty dumpsters, sometimes with shop owners yelling at us to keep out of their trash. We would take our stolen cardboard down to the bridge and climb the embankment.

 

Then we would sit on the cardboard and push ourselves off and slide down the hill. Those embankments were the highest hills we had ever seen. It was thrilling.

Apparently a lot of people did this.

We would slide down the embankment for hours until the cardboard was torn into tiny, useless shreds. Or until someone got hurt. Getting hurt was always the universal symbol for us to go home.

 

But there was this one time that my piece of cardboard had been damaged before anyone else’s. And rather than wait my turn, I thought I would try to see what happened if I tried to roll down the hill on my side.

I wasn’t even this smooth.

I don’t recommend this to anyone.


I made myself sick (because I get ridiculous motion sickness) and tore my favorite pair of shorts. They were just a simple pair of elastic waistbanded shorts that my mother had made. We were so poor that she made a lot of our clothes. They were white with rainbow pinstripes. They went with everything I owned and made me legs look extra tan. I really miss those shorts even though they would never fit me now. They were my Technicolor Dream Shorts.

I would so wear this thing.

My Three Nipples (NSFW)

If you looked really closely at this picture in this post, then you are a bit of a creeper. But you also probably noticed my third nipple. I’m not really interested in posting another picture of it, so that one will have to suffice for all your third nipple-y needs.

I wish it was magical.

I was born with the thing and honestly never thought much of it. It’s not like I was going around naked for people to see it. And I didn’t start wearing a two piece bathing suit until I was 10 or so, which was more than old enough for me to be ashamed of my body in other, more debilitating ways. My third nipple was barely on my radar.

 

I hated being touched then even more than I do now. And, unlike now, that hatred extended to anyone in the medical field. I had many bad experiences with doctors and dentists growing up.

 

Nowadays, I’m just like “You want me to get naked? Okay.” And then I start taking off my clothes with the door still open. Also, they have told me to undress before and I take off everything, including my underwear. Because they don’t specify not to. I truly do not care anymore. It’s made for some awkward conversations with nurses and doctors that are confused and disturbed by my nakedness.

James Bond’s fake third nipple.

But, when I was 14 or 15, my mother took me to see our pediatrician. We’d only been seeing her for a few years and I hated her. She was rude and dismissive. She treated my body like I was an unfeeling piece of meat. Alway poking and prodding at me. She would talk to my mother about me as though I weren’t even there. And her biggest crime, was that her handshake was like a cold, limp fish.

 

We were alone in the exam room. I was always alone with doctors as my mother passes out at the sight of blood or needles (even for shots). She asked me to lift up my shirt, and I reluctantly did. Uncomfortable and embarrassed at even this basic level of undress in front of a stranger that I hated.

This is really fun! Famous third nipples!

She noticed my third nipple and with no warning, she began touching it. It is just below my left breast, and she was making me very uncomfortable. It was too close to my breast for my comfort. And she was touching me without my permission.

 

She then left the room and came back in with literally the ENTIRE staff in the building to show them my third nipple. Nobody had ever seen one in the placement that mine is in. They oohed and ahhed over me like I was a Barnum and Baileys exhibit. They all came over and also tried to touch it/me. None of them even acknowledged me as a person.

 

And I flipped the fuck out. I was a terrible advocate for myself in those days. I was an insecure, shy, sad child. But I could see no medical purpose for this and also, it was just plain rude as fuck.

Mark Wahlberg actually has three nipples! Welcome to the trip nip club!

I got up from the exam table and left with my mother. I never told her what happened as she would have been just as dismissive as the doctor. And I refused to ever go back to see her.

 

My third nipple has caused plenty of other awkward encounters for me. If I am at a water park, children stare at it and whisper to each other about it. I’ve had people try to touch it. I’ve had “friends” try to rub it for luck.

If I’d had open heart surgery Krusty and I would be third nipple/heart surgery twins.

My sister, J, wants me to pierce it. I’ve had exes try to get me to get it removed. And friends have wanted me to get it tattooed.

 

And on one memorable occasion, my brother T’s ex girlfriends* wanted me to cover it up when I was in a bathing suit around him as it was “indecent.” T jokingly suggested I start wearing an eye patch over it, which I have to admit, would be fucking cool as shit.

Like so.

I recently bought a new bathing suit that is incredibly flattering on me and covers it up completely. I am not ashamed of it. But I am annoyed by the way I am treated because of it.

 

To answer a few questions that I always get asked: No, it doesn’t have any extra nerve endings like a regular nipple. Yes, I can feel when you touch it, just like if you were touching my skin. It is smaller than my other two nipples. It is an actual nipple, not just an areola.  It probably wouldn’t lactate if I were to lactate as there are no milk ducts behind it.

In writing this story I learned several things. #1 Third nipples are significantly more common in men than women. #2 They used to be considered a sign of witch craft but are now seen as a sign of sexual prowess in some cultures (wink wink). #3 Nipple tattoos are a thing. On women. And they are beautiful and painful looking and now I kind of want one!

I seriously love this.

Feel free to ask any other questions about it in the comments. Or maybe some of you have third nipples. Please share!


*I should make a disclaimer that this ex of T’s was insane. That is not a term I use lightly. She once accused us of cheating on her. With each other. We are full siblings. What the actual fuck?

Menstruation

Growing up, I was given to understand that the terrible experience of menstruating was to happen once a month for most of my adult life. It sounded like a pretty shitty deal to me, but whatevs, being a woman sucked sometimes. Or most of the time.

 

In my naive youth I had thought I was only going to get my period for one day every month. It still sucked. But I could deal with it for 1/30 of my life.

 

My parents never talked to me about it. Not surprisingly considering the sex talk I got. Not one of my four older sisters talked to me about it either. Also not surprising considering how much older they were than me and that we all kind of hated each other.

 

I didn’t get my period until I was 14. The same year my little sister got hers. I was seriously underweight and that probably delayed it. Also, I was pretty sure I had been delaying it through sheer force of will which was the same reason I never had a pregnancy scare before the procedure (at least in my mind). I may be overestimating my will here.

But seriously, I am all ‘mind over vagina’ over here.

I was wholly unprepared for the immense shame I would feel in getting my period. It didn’t matter that I rationally knew every woman menstruated. It didn’t matter that I logically knew I had done nothing wrong. It was gross. And bad, somehow.

 

I didn’t tell anyone for the first few months. I threw away my ruined underwear when it caught me off guard. Which happened very frequently at that age. I used up the feminine products my sister had left when she moved out. Then used the little money I had to buy my own. Then just used toilet paper for one awful month.

Also, we were poor. So it was this bullshit.

One day my parents were in my room. I don’t know why. But they went through my closet and found a bag of used feminine products. I would keep them in my closet until it was over and then sneak them down to the trash can outside. The perfect crime.

 

I was found out. My mother sat me down and tried to have the menstruating talk with me. I wanted to die. If it was possible to die from shame and humiliation I would have right then. I was nauseated by my shame. My face was burning, my heart was pounding. I just wanted to say whatever needed to be said to end the conversation. I couldn’t even hear her over the sound of my heart beating and the blood rushing to my face and neck. She could have literally said anything to me.

 

Besides,  I had already been menstruating for months and months by this point. She had nothing useful to tell me. Except that it would hurt and that I wasn’t allowed to wear tampons till I was 18. (I have no fucking clue why).

 

The thing was, it didn’t hurt. I was so thin that I hardly ever even got my period for many years. And even when I did, it was short and painless.

 

Little did I know, it was biding it’s time. Because I believe my period is sentient. And it hates me.

 

I know there is supposed to be a 28 day cycle. Bullshit. My cycle is: when do you have something important planned? Good. That day.

 

Going to a party? Have a date when I finally decide to sleep with that dude? Going out of town? Getting hijacked by pirates? Having heart surgery? I’ll be on my period for that.

 

Think I am exaggerating? I’ve had 5 heart surgeries. I was on my period for 4 of them. That is not a coincidence. I’m sure I will even be on it during my honeymoon (if I ever have one). Or if I am ever hijacked by pirates.

 

Once, during my heart surgery phase, I went up to see my mother. I was on blood thinners at the time. Yes, they do thin all your blood.

 

I was already having issues with my blood. I wasn’t building red blood cells properly. I was bordering on anemia. I kept losing so much during my surgeries. And I was a vegetarian.

 

I had planned to get my period up at my mother’s (which I did, thank you). By this time I was using the Diva Cup. Which is really going to be a wonderful story for another post coming soon.

 

Diva cups are awesome. I can’t recommend them enough. Blah blah blah. Read about them here. (And no, they aren’t paying me for that glowing endorsement, but they should. Maybe by the next period story).

This little guy.

But being on blood thinners meant I needed two lines of defense against the enemy. The cup and the pad.

 

My mother and I went out for a day of shopping. We went to one store and I “refreshed my defenses”. Then we drove to the next store. It was about a 15 minute trip.

 

As soon as I got out of my mother’s car, I suspected something was wrong. You know how you just get a sinking feeling in your stomach and just know? Like when you let your best friend cut your hair in sixth grade and even though you hadn’t looked in a mirror or seen the look on her face, you knew something was wrong. It was like that.

 

I walked straight to the bathroom. Dreading each step that brought me closer to my doom. Hoping I wasn’t going to find what I thought I was going to find.

 

In the bathroom, I pulled my pants down and saw it. The horror. I had bled through. Everything. It was like the final scene in Carrie. (Shoutout to Stephen King!)

Pretty much my exact face.

I took my pants off and then my underwear. I didn’t know what to do. I rinsed my pants off in the sink. They were beyond hope, but I had to wear them out of the store. Thank god there was a handicapped stall with a sink or the other shoppers would have gotten quite a show.

 

I threw my underwear away right then. They were too wrecked to even put back on. I didn’t want to put my pants on, but I had little choice.

 

Have you ever gone to the bathroom while wearing a wet bathing suit? Not in the suit, but in a bathroom? And then you have to pull this cold wet thing back on you. And it feels so gross and clingy. I hate the way that feels. And as you already know, I hate not wearing underwear.

 

I found my mother in the store. She looked at me horrified. “What happened in there? How did you get soaking wet?”

 

And I for a brief second, I felt that burning shame from all those years ago. My face began to flush and my heart rate increased. And then I thought, fuck it. So many worse things had happened to me by that point. This was nothing. This was fucking hilarious. I explained to her what happened and we laughed.

 

We ended up walking down the strip mall to a Bed Bath and Beyond to buy the darkest towel possible so I would have something to sit on for the drive home.

 

Everytime I use it, I think of this story and laugh a little to myself. Even more so when someone else uses it. So if you ever come over, now you’ll know why I have that one brown towel.

Weird Things

My last post got me thinking about all the weird games I used to play with my siblings as a child or just things we used to do that I don’t do anymore (as far as you guys know). So I thought I would take some time today to talk about those weird games. I already mentioned one in this post. So yeah, that was still my favorite.

My little sister and I love black olives. In fact, I can and do eat an entire can by myself. She and I would sit down with a bowl of them and put one on each finger of both hands and eat them off.

You all know you did this.

We also used to play with lizards all the time. We would catch them and let them bite us. We would dangle them off our fingers or our ears like they were clip on earrings. One time my brother let one dangle off his tongue. Ew.

I don’t believe we ever did this, though.

We were really poor, as I believe I have mentioned a few times. We used to have two television sets. One only had audio and one only had video. They were stacked on top of each other so we could watch TV. But we would turn the two TVs to different stations and watch it carefully, like the whole Pink Floyd Dark Side of the Moon and Wizard of Oz thing. Sometimes it lined up and we would go nuts laughing. (Shut up, we were poor and easily amused).

They were pretty much this old too.

The hallway in our childhood home was long and narrow and we would climb up it to the ceiling like a spider monkey. It was awesome and amazing and made us feel like ninjas. Also, in retrospect, how the fuck did I have the body strength to ever do that?! There is no way in hell I could do that now.

I would still do this if I could.

We would bite the tip off a grape and spin it around. We would bite down hard on it and it would spray everywhere. They were like mini water pistols (which we were not allowed to have as my parents didn’t support children playing with guns).

And, yes, I am obnoxious with a fake gun now. Like, really obnoxious.

We would climb into the dumpster recycling bin and steal cardboard boxes. We would break the boxes down and use them to slide down the hill by the bridge near our house. It was super fun.

We would spin around in circles until we got so dizzy we would fall down. Or, better yet, we would have the boyfriend of one of our older sisters grab our hands and swing us around and around like it was a human discuss throw.

Probably very dangerous.

My little sister and I played with Barbies. And there is probably enough material there for a completely separate post. So I think I’ll save those stories for that.

The few days a year it was cold enough to see our breath we would walk around pretending to smoke. I would even get candy cigarettes to add to the effect.

One day it hailed so much that we went down to the retention pond and scooped up handfuls of ice. Then we got into a hail fight. It hurt.

My brother and I would have contests to see who could tie a cherry stem in a knot with our tongues the fastest. Which is actually a pretty weird thing to do with him.

We would lie down and put our head on each other’s stomachs. Sometimes for hours. And we would listen to the weird noises our stomach’s made.

My parents would buy water in these weird rectangular 3.5 gallon jugs. When we were really thirsty and didn’t have time/desire to pour it into a cup we would twist the spout and drink out of it. It was fun and messy (which is also fun when you are a kid).

Also, if you pull the spout out completely it is flesh colored and looks like a little penis.

We also didn’t have A/C growing up. In the summer it was unbearable trying to sleep. 90 degrees, 90% humidity, and the crickets were deafening because we had to keep the windows open to avoid death by suffocation.

We had a box fan in our room to help with these heat. It really just blew hot air around so it was more of a poor people’s white noise machine. But we used to attach our top sheet to it and hang out in the sheet fort. It was actually amazingly fun.

Shockingly, not invented by us, according to this picture.

Also, once I got A/C it took several years to get used to sleeping without the noise of a fan.

And this is the last thing I am going to mention. We used to play this human crane machine game with a stuffed football of my brother’s. We would pretend to press buttons (on the football) and one of us would be the crane. We would reach down into a pile of toys and grab them. If we were mad at each other we would make the crane drop the stuffed animal.

So, there are some much weirder (like really fucking weird) things that I don’t really feel comfortable sharing here. And now I am curious: What weird things did you guys do as kids?