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Sh!t kids say and I’ve got some ‘splaining to do.

Guys, I hurt. I hurt real bad. It’s not one of those crazy over emotional days or anything like that. It’s more of a “I hate being a girl” day.

If you’ve never been this girl, then I hate you.
(GIF Credit:

That’s right. I’m oversharing, interwebs. I’m TMI-ing the hell out of the blog. Because right now, I have cramps, and they’re terrible, and that means that Mother Nature is about to send Moses to part the red sea or I’m about to ride the crimson wave or whatever the hell analogy you like to use to describe that I’M ABOUT TO BE MOTHER BITCH FOR THE NEXT FEW DAYS.


I seriously hate this time of the month. DESPISE IT. I get all angry, then all weepy, then all drowsy, and then every emotion ever in the history of womenkind. I’m like the theater masks times six million.

So, I get all crampy, and realize that it’s about that time, and I go to check my “supplies.” As luck would have it, I’m completely bumblefucking out of my lady products.  Of course I am.

So I wrap up the Boo, and buckle him in, and it’s off to the store.  We get some string cheese, we pick out some random things from the dollar section because one cannot simply walk into Target and not buy things from the dollar section, and we get him a new toothbrush because why the hell not. Then we get to the girly aisle, and I get what I need, and I toss them into the cart.

Boo: What are those?

Me: They’re for mommy.

Boo: Can I have one?

Me: You don’t need one.

Boo: Why not?

Me: They’re for ladies.

Boo: Boys can’t have them?

Me: Boys don’t need them. They’re for Mommy’s…special time.

Boo: Like your birthday? My birthday’s in September.

Me: No, not that special. This is…mommy’s time of the month.

Boo: Oh. Can I have a birthday the next month too?

Me: No, it’s not like…present time special.

Boo: Do you get presents at your special time?

Me: Not the good kind.

Boo: They should be the good kind.


Then Boo saw some yogurt with Perry the Platypus on them and totally forgot about Mommy’s special things. Yay, short attention span. 

Perry the Platypus

Perry the Platypus (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

We get home, and Boo runs upstairs and I start telling my mother about the

Me: Boo asked me what tampons were. I debated telling him it means no siblings right now.

Mom: Don’t tell him that.

Me: Well, how do you tell a four year old about a tampon?

Mom: It’s for a lady’s time…

Me: -I’m being Boo. What time? Bedtime?

Mom: No, a time for a lady’s body to…discharge?


Mom: …I…but….


I go upstairs, feeling a little better because NO ONE CAN EXPLAIN A TAMPON TO A FOUR YEAR OLD BOY and Boo is in the bedroom with all his toys out. Also. With all my toys out*.

Me: Boo, did you open Mommy’s box?

Boo: They’re for boys too.

Me: How are they for boys? These are for mommy’s…body.

Boo: Uh, they’re pew-ers. DUH.

Me: …

*I would have photo’d this, but I feel like that would have made it seem okay to give Spiderman a tampon and call it a pew-er. Here is a rough drawing of exactly what was going on.
Spiderman and his Playtex Pew-er.

Spiderman and his Playtex Pew-er.


that part of life where emotions are humorous, except only a little.

I’m having a day. I’m having a week, really. Actually, it’s been years, so really, I’m having a life. 

My various friends, whether they be besties, oldies, manfriends, hockey friends, drinking friends, soccer friends, probably even my dog that looks like Falcor, they all know that I’m an incredibly overly emotional person.


It’s borderline hysterics.


SoccerGirl brought these tiny little wine bottles to a soccer game to ask Poof and I to be bridesmaids.

Poof: We better get on the field before L.A. starts crying.

Me: (choked up) I’m not going to cry!


I went over to NeighborGirl’s one day to watch Colin Farrell in Phonebooth, because that movie was ALWAYS ON, and bad things happened on the way.

NeighborGirl: Boyfriend just broke up with me.

Me: BabyDaddy just broke up with me.

Cue waterworks.

Me: I’m so upset that this is so sad because if it’s weren’t sad, it’d be really funny!

So, today. I’m a little emotional today. Which is like, normal for me, and like:

Rain, rain, mother fuckers

…For everyone else.

So, I’m trying to get through my day, and literally everything is setting me off.


Guy at the Drive Thru: Here’s your iced tea.

Me: …but I ordered a coke.


Friend: Do you need me to bring you coffee?

Me: …I’d love that SO MUCH.


And the real kicker…

CoWorker: Are you going to cry the whole day?

Me: …no…

Trying to unobtrusively not be crying.


Special Thanks to the interwebs for giving me gifs to make me less emotional temporarily, and especially to wordpress for being there so I can write and distract myself.

Even more special thanks to my mother who is totally who I get the emotional crazies from. She cried when Michelle Kwan fell in the Sagano Olympics and only got silver. She also cried when Mulan cuts her hair off to keep her father safe. I love you, Mommy.


I am “the ladies.”

It’s pretty much impossible to be a twenty-something female today and not know about HBO’s GIRLS.

Hell, I’m a twenty-something girl who has no cable TV and watches Dancing with the Stars on a semi-regular basis with her mother, and I know and love GIRLS.

GoldDust introduced me to GIRLS about halfway through the first season. We were the ladies. I loved it, I hated it, I debated filing a lawsuit against it for basically stealing my life and and after I got over that, I bought it on blu-ray and awaited with the rest of the world for season two to fecking start.

I was in the shower tonight, debating if I was Hannah with just a little dash of Marni, or if when I drink if I turn into Jessa without the madly printed pants, or maybe if I have a touch more of Shoshana to me than I’d ever like to admit, when I started writing a script in my head if I were to just, you know, wake up, be in NYC and be in GIRLS. And then I realized:

I’m totally  a Hannah.

And I’m pretty sure I was once in a secretly filmed 2009ish episode of GIRLS. This is how it would have looked in GIRLS, probably.

Scene: office breakroom. Badly lit, crappy mismatching chairs around dirty tables, vending machines, refrigerator filled with  food labelled with angry post it notes. TV is on, but no one is watching.

L.A. is sitting at a table, alone, eating off a cafeteria tray.

Enter CO-WORKER. She comes up behind L.A., debating sitting down.

Co-worker: Can I sit here?

L.A. (jumps, dropping cell phone which she was obviously texting on): Sure. Co-worker, right?

Co-worker: Yeah, you’re L.A., right? You work in my department, I think.

L.A. (laughing): On my better days.

Co-worker laughs.

Awkward silence in which chewing is very, very loud.

Co-worker: So, how old are you?

L.A.: 22. How about you?

Co-worker: I’m 25. We should totally go out sometime. I need some new friends. No one goes out anymore.

L.A.: Sure, that’d be fun.

Co-worker: Here (hands L.A. cellphone), put your number in. I’ll text you and we can go grab drinks sometime.

L.A is entering number when cellphone buzzes.

Co-worker: Sorry! (takes phone, reads text) It’s just my friend telling me about another person getting married. I swear, I can’t go on facebook anymore without someone I know getting engaged, or getting married, or having kids. I mean, I’m only 25! Why does everyone need their life to start yesterday? Hello, how much work are babies? Or husbands — giant babies?? (hands phone back)

L.A. (finishes putting number in phone): Here you go.

Co-worker: Awesome.Sorry to rant! I just really don’t need to see one more girl in a white dress, or baby, or…

L.A.: …baby in a white dress?

Co-worker: That’s funny, exactly!

L.A.: Well, I’m almost off break, and I have to go call to check on Boo so…

Co-worker: Right, for sure. Who’s Boo? Your boyfriend? That’s okay, I have a boyfriend too! Well, sort of a boyfriend, more of a really long story…

L.A.: …Oh, he’s my son, actually.

Awkward silence.

Co-worker: Oh, I’m…so…

L.A.: Don’t worry about it. If it makes you feel any better, I’m not married.

And that’s the time that I pretty much met another Hannah on the street. If that ever shows up as a plotline, you’re welcome, HBO.

They’ve stolen my life and turned it into a TV show.

I swear, HBO must put something into the water of every house that has their channel. Case in point?

HBO, you’ve won me over again. Picture Credit to

GoldDust and I were talking the other day.

“This show is us,” she tells me. “It reminds me so much of our friendship.”

I YouTube the show and watch a trailer. “As long as I’m not the girl in the preview that falls off her bicycle.”

“We’re all parts of each character,” GoldDust assures me.

Thus, I agreed to watch the show.

Thirty-two seconds into the first episode I was hooked. I was also most like the girl who fell off the bicycle, a struggling writer (wait, does that sound familiar?) who is snarkily funny. I’m snarky. ADMIT IT, I am.


I was so hooked on this series that I ended up watching the first few back to back, sitting on the couch, while eating slices of swiss cheese. It was all delicious. The show and the cheese.


Midway through one of the episodes, the snarky writer that reminds me so much of myself gets a phone call, from a doctor and is informed she has HPV.

I suddenly am having massive flashbacks.

For my 21st birthday, I received great news.

Just prior to my birthday, I had been living on my own the past few years, and was being rather neglectful of things that you shouldn’t be. I wasn’t eating on a regular basis, was drinking like a sailor, and was neglecting basic things like doctor’s appointments.


Well, I moved home for my sanity’s sake, and found myself getting caught up on all these things. The eating, the check ups, etc.

Turns out that the first doctor’s appointment I had came up with bad results. Case in point: cancer-y looking things.

Happy Birthday to me, right?

“What the H-E-Double Hockey Sticks, HBO?” I’m asking myself. “Have you stolen into my room in the dead of night, taken my old journals and created incredibly awesome TV with them?”

Now, granted, when I got this call from my doctor, it wasn’t about HPV. But it was still a call from a doctor basically telling me not good news.

And I’m also sure that millions of women have watched this episode and thought, holy balls, this was me in some way, shape, or form at some misunderstood point of my life.

I hope that a million others watched this episode and thought, holy balls, I better go get my lady parts checked out. In the healthy way, not the dirty way.

But still. HBO. I’m expecting a royalty check in the mail at any time for airing an episode that was basically my life, and thus has really invaded my and my lady parts privacy.

And also, everyone, watch GIRLS. And probably go see your doctor if you haven’t lately.

PSA, over.