Tag Archives: periods

I Need to Share This With You

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Today I went and bought an emergency pack of tampons. My period came two days early. I was caught out, in the wilderness of metropolitan Sydney. I rushed into a pharmacy, grabbed a pack of tampons, went to the counter where a young male scanned my tampons. At the end of the transaction he asked me if I wanted a bag. I had my own bag and so responded with, “no thanks, I’m just going to stick them straight in.” That’s right. I said, about tampons, I’M JUST GOING TO STICK THEM STRAIGHT IN!!!!

The guy’s eyes widened in a disbelieving horror that you could see unfolding over and over again in his mind as the visuals became more and more graphic. I finally cottoned on and said, “in my own bag.” But it was too late, we all know it was too late. I will forever be the woman who overshared with the checkout guy at Chemist Works.
For the record, I meant STICK THEM IN MY BAG NOT RAM A WHOLE PACKET UP MY VAJAYJAY…. but I did indeed run straight to the toilet and stick one, SINGULAR tampon in.
I just needed to get that off my chest.

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Period Strike

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According to science I’ve already bled enough for my period so if it’s all the same can it be over now? I know I only woke up with them this morning but fair is fair and my diva measuring goblet never lies. I’ve had my 60-80ml that textbooks claim is normal so I’m out now. I’ve been really patient about getting three periods worth in my first two days and then still continuing on fo a few more days before my period actually ends but I’ve had enough. I’m 36, I’m too old for this shit.

Science, I give you this ultimatum, either you stop my period once your specified amount of blood loss is over OR you modify your clearly ridiculous figures that you pulled out of your obviale arse that didn’t want to be bothered actually researching such a ooooickyladpartsnooooo issue. Robin out.

Memoir of a Teacher: Chapter 2, Nothing to be Frightened of

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Memoir of a Teacher: Chapter 2, Nothing to be Frightened of

Continuing on with my inspired memoir from yesterday in honour of #NaNoWriMo and my dear friend Pete. I’d say enjoy but how could you not?

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Memoir of a Teacher: Nothing to be Frightened of

I don’t believe in frogs, but I miss them. That’s what I say when the question is put. I asked my brother, who has waxed philosophical whilst drunk in pubs in Wollongong and Newcastle, what he thought of such a statement, without revealing that it was my own. He replied with a few words: “What a load of Wank.”

The person to begin the second chapter of my illustrious memoir with is my maternal grandmother, Grandma Cindy, although neither her first nor last name is Cindy, that was her dog’s name. She was a secretary in Edinburgh until she married my grandfather, Arthur James. He may have had a snazzy nickname like Arty, King or Jimmy Jim Jim Jaroo but as he died when my mother was fourteen I never met him so can’t really comment. He was an architect with a certain Scottish dash to him: a man without a tartan, which my grandmother often lorded over him, but born and raised there no less. By the time I knew them, my grandfather was ashes under a rose bush and my grandmother was living in Wollongong an hour away from her nearest child. Grandma was an avid church goer; she was in the choir, on the board and working in the op shop. She was petite, outwardly very opinionated, and had the paper thin skin of old age that made me live in constant fear that she might burst open at any given moment. Her wardrobe was full of kilts, not necessarily in her tartan, and beige petticoats of every length. She had regular appointments with God and being Godly and had bern advised she was a top notch sheila. Mainly by me, I thought she was the cat’s pajamas.

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My brother remembers that once, when he was very small, he went into Grandpa’s garden and pulled up all the flowers. Grandma yelled at him until he howled, then turned uncharacteristically white, confessed everything to our mother, and swore she would never again yell at the children. Actually, my brother doesn’t remember any of this — neither the flowers nor the yelling. He was just told the story repeatedly by our mother. And indeed, were he to remember it, he might well be wary. As a soccer player who has suffered from severe concussion, he believes that memories are often false, “so much so that, on the Cartesian principle of the rotten apple, none is to be trusted unless it has some external support.” I am more trusting, or self-deluding, so shall continue as if all my memories are true. Yet also acknowledge that my siblings’ memories are probably nothing more than rotten apples.

Our mother was christened Anne Margaret although my father often spelt it Anne Magarat. She hated the Rat, and complained about it to anybody who would listen, whose explanation were genereall that Dad was a bit of a turd at times. She has followed in her mother’s footsteps and goes to church and tries to run as much as possible.

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In my childhood, the three unmentionable subjects were the traditional ones: periods, politics, and sex. When I got my first period I thought I was dying of cancer, my father still refuses to mention who he votes for and sex I worked out. I’ve got three kids to prove it.

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As for religion, this was discussed at length my father would tell me if I didn’t follow his church exactly I’d not only go to hell but get a belting and my mother would yell us how much better and cooler her church was and put equal amounts of pressure, through guilt rather than fear, to tow the line. Consequently I developed huge social anxieties around going out for public rituals like picnics, dinners and dances.

As my parents are still very much alive I think I’ll leave the “appropriation” there and start thinking of the third chapter of my highly anticipated memoir.

This was of course taken from Nothing to be Frightened of by the brilliant Julian Barnes.  Read the real thing here http://www.nytimes.com/2008/10/05/books/chapters/chap-nothing-to-be-frightened-of.html?pagewanted=all

Read the first chapter of my “memoir” here https://riedstrap.wordpress.com/2014/10/31/memoir-of-a-teacher-a-red-hot-tip-for-nanowrimo/

Impractical Parenting: You know you’re a mother when…

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… this is considered not THAT messy.

… you run out of pads so use a nappy in the interim.

… you discover you haven’t actually run out of pads, you’re brain was just too fried to see them so now you’re a grown woman wearing an infant boy’s nappy for no reason.

… the idea of having a cocktail with the girls makes you so excited that you can’t sleep… for the entire month beforehand,  because that’s how far in advance you have to arrange things.

… you’ve forgotten how to go to the toilet unsupervised.

… a good day is when you get to brush your teeth.

… one spew on your top isn’t enough to make you change it.

… you enjoy snuggling in bed on your own even more than a university student.

… your food intake is even worse than a university student’s. It consists of half sucked on left overs.

…  the idea of giving yourself a timeout is appealing.

… having a headache is not an excuse,  it’s a way of life.

… the spirit is willing but the body is exhausted.

… your partner’s very presence infuriates you for no particular reason.

… you’re always hungry but never get food because your children steal it.

… you think it’s okay to sniff another human’s butt.

… you think of creating a blanket fort and hiding in it on a regular basis.

… chocolate is your bed fellow.

… you go to put laundry away, forget what you’re doing, go to make a cup of tea,  forget you made it, go to find clean clothes, can’t find them, then drink cold tea you have just discovered.

…. ask your 27 year old babysitter if she’s been taking her probiotics, because apparently everyone needs to be babied by you now… awkward.

… you have no desire to get out of your pajamas.

… a baby comes bursting out of your vagina, or in the cases like my twins thanks to an emergency c section, out of your stomach (alien style).