How to Poison Your Husband on Your Anniversary: Also, I’m Pretty Sure That I Just Wrote Nicholas Stoller’s Next Blockbuster

The most fucked up thing about this post is not that I accidentally poisoned my husband on our anniversary. It’s that some women will land here because they actually Googled “How to poison your husband.” If you are here because you Googled “How to poison your husband,” I look forward to seeing your story on 48 Hours. But don’t worry, Nancy Grace will have your back and find some way to spin your story into something worthy of a Lifetime movie.

So Calm-ass Husband and I had our second wedding anniversary. TWO whole years that he’s put up with my insane questions, like if I can have “one last go at him” when he dies and “Can you pick out my vagina from a photo lineup?“. Two years of putting up with my inability to recycle, forcing him to look at Victorian Porn, and my mega-PMS. So I wanted to make it a special anniversary.

I knew I would get him this game he’s been drooling over, “The Last of Us”, but I felt bad just handing it over to him. Although, I literally could have given it to him in the bag in which it came, kicked him in the nuts, and he still would have been insanely excited, and even overlooked the nut-kick. That’s how much he is into this game.

The morning of our anniversary I was racking my brain for ideas when I thought, “Well, I could just turn the house into the game (a zombie apocalypse game) and send him on a hunt for the it.”

I bought him the special edition version of the game, wrapped it and hid it. Then I decorated the house in what I imagine the post-apocalyptic world would look like. Which is apparently a bunch of crepe paper, balloons and red light bulbs. Scary movies always have red light bulbs.

Sidenote: who is changing the regular lightbulbs for the red lightbulbs when the killer is on the loose in scary movies? Like, is a side story some guy who’s all, “Fuck, another killer on the loose, time to change the lightbulbs.”? I may be on to a movie here. Take note, Nicholas Stoller. We’ll call it, “The Changer”, and show how the lightbulb changer is the unsung hero of killing-sprees. Maybe we even show how he apprenticed under another lightbulb changer. Plot twist: the master lightbulb changer is the killer.

Side, side note: You’re all probably wondering why I’ve chosen Nicholas Stoller to direct “The Changer”. I feel it needs a comedic component to it. Plus, he looks like he smells of new leather and woodsy cologne. Intoxicating.

So I set the stage to turn our cozy little Marin County home into a slaughter-zone one might find in some small hick-town. All it took was a trip to Target (see, Nick (are we on a first name basis?), I can keep the movie budget pretty low). This is my post-apocaplyptic world:

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Then I hid the treasure hunt clues in balloons:

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And, in staying true to the game, I made a shiv with which he could pop the balloons:

Also, I now have “how to make a shiv” in my Google search history, and am about to publish an article entitled “How to Poison Your Husband”, so I’m pretty sure I will be on the FBI watch list.

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Since I knew he’d be coming in through the garage door, I gave him a little sneak peak as to what he was about to walk into:

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And since chocolate cake with chocolate frosting is his favorite, I made him a chocolate fudge cake, with chocolate fudge buttercream frosting, covered with chocolate fudge ganache. I literally could not have packed more fudge into my husband

‘s cake.

Weird, I don’t know why that keeps line-breaking.

Anyways, the cake was planted with one of his clues. And also may have been what later poisoned him.

And this is how it all went down:

Notice that I said it could be a contaminated cake? IT WAS TOTALLY A FUCKING CONTAMINATED CAKE!

Because I lovingly made my husband fettucine alfredo for dinner. Then gave him cake while we watched the movie, Stoker (Seriously – what. the. fuck. My and Nick’s movie is going to be SO much better than that self-indulgent piece.)

By the end of the movie, CAH had run into the bathroom and began projectile vomiting. And then started getting hives and itchy palms. And could not stop vomiting.

I finally got a text from him that said, “It’s not stopping. I can’t stop.”

And then a few minutes later, another text saying, “Just go downstairs to our bedroom, your anniversary gift is down there.”

So I, feeling like total jackass for giving my husband something that made him sick, headed down to our bedroom, where I open the bedroom door to see rose petals everywhere and, on our bed, a set of brand new Vera Wang sheets, embroidered with a line from our song “Home”, by Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeroes:

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And finally, my poor, exhausted, husband came downstairs and fell into our brand new sheets and passed out.

And at about 7am the next morning, he had to rush me to the emergency room because my shoulder was in complete spasm from my bulging disc.

And that is how I can sum up our 2nd wedding anniversary and how I poisoned my husband.

But, people who’ve been married for way longer than 2 years, we’ll look back on this some day and laugh, right??

Typos Suck, and I Have a Bulging Disc, Not a Bulging Dick

Just like when Calm-ass Husband tells me about his job, my eyes glaze over when people tell me about their medical problems. I’m an empathy-based listener, so telling me, “I’ve been in the worst pain of my life” will get more of my attention than “I have cancer”. It’s not that I don’t care that you have cancer, I just better identify with how you are actually feeling.

That is why I have not really mentioned my injury. The injury that has kept me from posting regularly the last few months. I assume you will be just as bored as I am when people talk about medical problems. And I won’t go into detail.

I have a bulging disc. Or as I almost sent in an email to my 60-something neighbor before proof-reading it, a “bulging dick”.

It hurts, it sucks, blah blah blah. Calm-ass Husband had to take me to the ER for lidocaine injections twice because my shoulder was spasming, whine whine.

But I swear, I’ve been down and in tons of pain and that’s why I’ve been MIA. Look, here’s proof:

A fuck load of drugs, which, btw, don't do shit for a bulging disc.

A fuck load of drugs, which, btw, don’t do shit for a bulging disc.

And drugs don’t do shit for a bulging disc, by the way. I got Percocet, which vaguely helped, but then while doing research on it, I kept reading things from other Percocet users like, “I’m up to 8 a day”, and, “When I stop taking it, the withdrawals make me vomit.” which terrified me and so I’ve only taken it twice.

But you readers are ON MY FUCKING ASS. Which, ok, I kind of love. But I’ve been getting emails of “where did you go”, and comments from friends, such as, “I noticed you haven’t posted on Wiseass Wife in awhile.” And then my friend Collin on Facebook, after BADGERING ME RELENTLESSLY TO THE POINT WHERE I WAS CURLED UP IN A BALL IN TEARS about my choice to not have kids (ok, ok, fine, it was one Facebook comment and I found it kind of cute and endearing), mentioned something about it.

So I will explain the highlights and lowlights of my life while I’ve been in chronic pain and on drugs so that you understand why there’s not been much to write about because I’ve literally been the most boring person on the planet (and don’t say I didn’t warn you):

Highlight #1: Tending to my garden

Look at my bush!

Look at my bush!

Most of my free days are spent in awe of the fact that I’ve managed to keep plants alive. Look how bushy my lemon balm and sweet potatoes have become. Which leads me to #2.

Highlight#2: Tending to my downstairs garden without sobbing

The main body part that has been affected by my bulging disc has been my right shoulder and arm. The pain has been excruciating. And of course the assholes at the ER were all, “On a scale of 1 to 10, how bad is the pain?”. On the first visit I said, “I hate this question, because I’m sure if my arm had just been cut off, that would definitely be a 10, but I can say this is the worst pain that I have ever felt in my life.” The second time I went to the ER and they asked me that question, it was after I begged my primary care physician, a female Kaiser doctor in San Rafael, for pain meds, and she declined me because “pain medication can be habituating” (even though I don’t have a history of addiction), so my answer was something to the effect of, “THE SAME FUCKING THING IT WAS LAST TIME BECAUSE NOT A GOD DAMNED FUCKING THING HAS BEEN DONE ABOUT IT SINCE THE FIRST FUCKING TIME I WAS IN THIS GOD DAMN FUCKING PLACE.”, to which the nurse said, “So I’ll take that as a “10” on the pain scale.” Then he asked me, in front of my husband, if I “felt safe at home”. I told CAH that he should have given me a stern look and said, “You know what to say,” but I guess he was too “concerned” about my “sobbing” and “screaming of obscenities” to take advantage of the colossal failure of Kaiser Permanente to offer a safe space for potentially battered women.

This is one of the symptoms I noted on my intake form.

This is one of the symptoms I noted on my intake form.

I’m sorry, I digress. I often get distracted by the massive failure of Kaiser Permanente to actually do something productive. And all you Kaiser patients who have found them to be “not so bad”, give it time: they’ll miss your breast lump or colon mass soon enough, and catch it just in time for your funeral. Here’s my personal list:

1. My sweet family friend Doug: stomach problems diagnosed as “indigestion” by Kaiser. Sent home with anti-acids and told to “wait it out”. Died a year later from metastasized stomach cancer. Kissing his cold, hard cheek, one last time while he lay in his casket was not the highlight of my life.

2. My best friend’s grandfather: lung mass operation postponed for a month because his Kaiser doctor went on vacation. Died 6 months later from metastasized cancer. Hope that vacation was worth it.

3. My neighbor’s wife’s breast cancer: presented as a bruise on her breast with “orange-peel-like” consistency. Sent home with instructions to give it time to heal (much like mine). Died within the year of breast cancer.

And then my own personal issue with them 10 years ago, which I won’t divulge publicly, but let’s just say, they owe me one. So when I do walk in there and ask them to tie my tubes, I don’t want to hear any bullshit about me only being 35 with no kids. Just tie those fuckers and be glad I didn’t sue your negligent asses.

So needless to say, can’t wait until hubby has open enrollment and we can switch to insurance that doesn’t concern themselves more with how much money they can make per patient, than actual diagnostic work-up.

Oh, also, I’m still waiting for my return phone call, Jamison.

Although big ups to my AMAZING physical therapist and spinal surgeon. Kaiser must have outsourced the hiring the days they were hired.

Anyhoo, my right arm is my predominant arm. Which has made most things I do regularly, such as writing, very painful. So the high point of my life recently was shaving my hoo-ha without sobbing hysterically, charging out of the shower, throwing my razor at CAH and screaming, “YOU BETTER APPRECIATE THIS, MOTHERFUCKER, AND I DON’T WANT TO HEAR ANY COMPLAINTS ABOUT THE SPOTTY PATCHES I COULDN’T REACH.”

Seriously, guys. you can’t appreciate the squatting, pulling, and grunting that goes into making our girly bits all pretty and smooth for you. And as I established in a prior post, my vagina is my best feature. Well, I pointed out in a prior post that I wanted to write about how my vagina is my best feature, but CAH strongly requested that I didn’t. So out of respect for my husband, I won’t point out how it’s like two little butterflies fluttering around a pink rose. It’s a work of art.

But writing about it is just one of the ways that my husband and I don’t see eye to eye. Which brings me to the next point.

Highlight #3: My husband and I don’t agree on everything and that is ok.

I recently watched an episode of Private Practice (don’t judge me, being home alone, hopped up on drugs, makes you binge watch things you wouldn’t normally watch) and a baby was born with some androgynous defect where it had both a penis and a vagina and had a 70% chance of identifying as a girl and 30% as a boy. The parents had to decide whether to assign it a gender, or let it grow older and decide. So I explained this predicament to CAH and said:

Me: Let’s see how like-minded we are. At the count of 3, we each say what we would do in this situation.

CAH: Ok….

Me: 1…2….3….

CAH: GIRL! Me: DROWN IT!!!!

We were both stunned. I was stunned that he went with “girl” and he was stunned that he didn’t think of “drown it”. Clearly he’s never seen the “Joy Luck Club”.

Highlight #4: I went to the World War Z premier and saw Brad Pitt

‘Nuff said

Highlight #5: Birds came to my homemade bird feeder and I assumed a SWAT posture and filmed them.

Again, ’nuff said

Highlight #6: While looking for a new general practitioner, I read the best doctor review ever.

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Highlight #7: I unsubscribed from American Apparel newsletters because they had the audacity to send two newsletters in one day.

And let’s face it, no one is actually buying their overpriced basics. We just go to the website for the half-naked models.

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And now you know why posts have been scarce. But the good news is that I’m beginning to feel much better and so will work to increase them back to normalcy as soon as possible.

Have a good weekend!

Moms on Pinterest: the Silent War of Mom on Mom (and Not in the Fun Porn Way)

Guys, there’s a war brewing. It’s not a bloody one, like across the seas. It’s not a “meaningless PR shoulder-pat for politicians war”, like the one on drugs.

It’s worse. Much worse.

It’s a silent war on Pinterest. And the reason it’s silent is because it’s between women, specifically moms, so it’s passive aggressive and all done completely in subtext.

Men, don’t even bother running to Pinterest to see it for yourself, because it is only visible to other women. It’s like if you were in a room full of angry deaf people and you were the only one who didn’t know sign language.

There has been an increasing presence of moms on Pinterest who are hell-bent on proving that they are better moms than the rest. Moms Or Man-moms* Believing Other Moms Brutally Suck, or, MOM BOMBS.

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*This is a non-discriminatory blog, so you gay men with babies who are just as, if not more, insufferable, are included. That’s equality, bitch.

And it doesn’t even start when the baby is born.

For instance, are you one of those shitty moms who just called or texted everyone to let them know the sex of your baby?

BOOM! MOM BOMBed:

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Original pin caption: Gender Reveal, great idea!

Oh, and for those of you moms slumming around in maternity jeans and XXL Old Navy v-neck t’s?

BOOM! MOM BOMBed

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Original pin caption: Great maternity outfit idea!

And for those of you low-class bitches who merely let friends and family know your new baby’s name on a birth announcement:

BOOM! MOM BOMBed

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(her blog url is above in case you good samaritans want to head over there and give her the validation she clearly so desperately needs.)

By the way, moms of Pinterest, take note: this woman is not just a run-of-the-mill MOM BOMB. She is what we call a cut-throat MOM BOMB, and she is out for blood. Cut-throat MOM BOMBS are so narcissistic that, after they take a dump, they lean over the toilet and take a whiff in complete pride over what they just squatted out. They then immediately take a picture and Instagram it: #IShitPerfection.

This cut-throat MOM BOMB’s bloodthirst, fed by her competitive sense of smug self-satisfaction, led to a whole photoshoot of JUST the name reveal:

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AND not only did she do a name reveal photo shoot (or 3), but if your hospital bag merely contains a onesie, a book and some hemorrhoid cream, then BOOM! She has MOM BOMBed your ass, yet again:

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But alas, the baby will come, and what are these Pinterest moms to do to continue the good fight?

Snack foods, duh.

For you lazy bitches who just dump some cheerios and apple slices in front of your kids and expect to be called “Mother of the Year”, you need to get your shit together. If you’re not making food art, then you make us sick and you should just drop your kids off at a safe haven spot now, because they are headed straight for a life of crime while they’re stuck with your non-food-art-making asses.

And the moms of Pinterest want you slackers to know that they’re better than your deadbeat asses. In fact, this lady served her kids a DICK, just to subtly tell you what she thinks of you and your antiquated orange slices.

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(Dick Mom surprisingly has a few phallic-shaped works of food art, visit her blog)

Sadly, like any war, there are casualties. That is when food art becomes Rorschach tests (ink blot tests) and we know we’ve lost them.

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This war is deadly and it can’t be stopped. Mostly because the women will never admit there is actually a war, they’ll just smile huge fake smiles and give compliments, while deflecting compliments they receive with feigned self-deprication. Only those of us with the courage to stand up and point it out can bring attention to this plight.

Don’t be a part of the problem. Be a part of the solution. Mediocre moms unite!

On a separate note, if you really want to prove that your ovaries are superior to everyone else’s, or if you’re a regular mom who actually has a life, you can make a difference in this world:

This is Fiona, a 5-year-old Parson’s Terrier who needs a new forever home. She is located in the Sacramento, CA area and inquiries can be sent to 4rfriends.mail [@] gmail.com

And since she’s on this blog – it means you can pin her. So go ahead, let’s see this pretty face going around Pinterest – it’s far more preferable to fruit penises.

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Karma’s a Bitch: the Takedown of Mrs. Cunt Fungus

I love my neighborhood, I really do. Except Mrs. Cunt Fungus (name changed to protect myself from litigation).

Mrs. Cunt Fungus is the saddle bag down the street who, when we first brought home Violet the Screaming Dog, decided it totally appropriate to make passive aggressive comments about Violet being inherently dangerous because she’s a pit bull. Despite the fact that Violet has never even fucking screamed at her.

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To be fair, every time Violet sees Mrs. Fungus, she immediately flops over on her back for belly scratches which, to a fungus that has no brain, could be construed as an aggressive posture; luring her in with the request for a belly rub so she can then let loose a war cry and chomp her face.

Fair enough.

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But if there is one thing I do not tolerate, is cunt funguses screwing with my family. There’s a reason Calm-ass Husband affectionately calls me “Mama Bear”. Or maybe it’s fearfully. Hard to tell.

When we first moved in, Mrs. Cunt Fungus introduced herself as a dog trainer. Turns out, she FOSTERS dogs for a fucking facility that gives guide dogs to blind people, and that is why she calls herself a trainer. Apparently, knowing how to teach a dog to “sit” qualifies you as a dog trainer. I removed a splinter from my foot the other day, so feel free to call me a doctor.

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This is the same woman who, when she had a foster puppy for blind people, made a point to walk in the opposite direction when she saw me and Violet, muttering, “I don’t want this dog near yours, he’s very valuable.”

And it took every fiber of my being to restrain myself from showing her that, between me and Violet, I’m far likelier to rip her face off.

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But victory is sweet. Recently, I found out that Cunt Fungus was dog-sitting one of our neighbor’s dogs, a 9 month old puppy, and the dog died in her care. Which is horrifying and tragic, and my heart breaks for that sweet puppy and his owners.

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But the next time Cunt Fungus wants to make a snide remark about how my dog is a danger to “valuable” dogs in the neighborhood, I am going to relish every second of pointing out that, between her and Violet, the leaderboard reads:

Dead Dogs

Cunt Fungus: 1

Violet: 0

On a serious note, RIP sweet little puppy. I have a whole herd of furry loved ones on the other side, so I hope you’re all romping through green fields, with an endless supply of treats.

Guys, You All Need to Stop Sticking Your Wieners Wherever They Will Fit, Swedish Man Dead After Humping a Hive

It’s been a long post break AGAIN. I know, I know, trust me, I’m more pissed about it than you. It seems that I have pinched a nerve in my neck and it has basically taken out my right shoulder and, on some days, my right arm and hand. Which sucks because I’m right-handed.  So I’ve been floating through life these last few weeks on various steroids, anti-inflammatories and muscle relaxers, and have not been up for much more than binge-watching Grey’s Anatomy with drool seeping down my chin. 

Btw, watching Grey’s Anatomy when you’re shoulder is fucked up and you’re on mind-altering drugs is just as bad for the psyche as using Web M.D. I’m pretty sure that my “pinched nerve” is a intradural-extramedullary tumor. Also, I think Calm-ass Husband is sleeping with Meredith Grey in the on-call room, but I can’t seem to catch them in the act.

But it’s not entirely his fault, because when you’re in horrible pain and drugged up, fulfilling your wifely duties is not that easy. ESPECIALLY when it’s your dominant arm that is hurt. One night I tearfully held my hand up in a circle formation and told him he could just ram into it, like a glory hole, but the glory would be that he’d know who was on the other side because there was no wall between us. But apparently hand-humping a weeping half-cripple on narcotics is frowned upon in this establishment. The Valium made me “too limp-wristed” and the tears were a “boner killer”, which is BS because we all know about CAH’s secret necrophilia fantasy

But fair enough, it wouldn’t have been the steamiest sex tape.

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But somewhere between my Valium haze and my Flexeril-Chardonnay buzz, I saw the news story about a Swedish man named “Hasse” (they may have changed his name to protect the idiotic) who died from having SEX with a BEEHIVE! Or a hornets nest. Reports vary but, bee/hornet, wtf is the difference and who the fuck cares?

Note: Calm-Ass Husband, an aspiring bee-keeper, is having a coronary right about now, and making a mental note to sternly lecture me later on the difference between hornets and bees. To be fair, he’s been tense lately. He only has limp hands to hump. And, thankfully, he’s smart enough to not hump a beehive. 

Apparently, Horny Hasse was feeling a bit randy and, since we all know that nothing but dog-ass ugly women come from Sweden (seriously, would Elin Nordegren and Malin Akerman stop flaunting their mangled mugs around town already?), his only recourse to scratch his itch was to have it stung. So he grabbed a nearby bees/hornets nest and got down to business.

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But apparently, when you hump a hive, it’s inhabitants get pretty pissed off and come at you with the vengeance of…..a swarm of hornets. And by vengeance, I mean 146 stings on the man’s body, including 54 alone to his package. The neighbor who found him said he was so swollen that, at first, he thought Hasse was a washed-up whale carcass. It wasn’t until he saw Hasse’s neck tattoo that he realized that it was either Hasse, or that the whales of Sweden were earning some serious sea-cred.

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“But, Wiseass Wife,” you say, “How do you know he was humping the hive? Maybe he was merely naked in the wrong place, at the wrong time.”

Luckily, Sweden’s top sex crime investigation unit, Sex and Whales Erectile Death Enforcement, SWEDE, was on the case. Upon examining both the body and the scene of the bee-rape, they found Hasse’s pubes at the entrance of the nest, his fingerprints on the nest, and SEMEN on the bodies of the dead BEES (or wasps). That means he FINISHED. He HUMPED a BEE/HORNET’S nest to COMPLETION. I don’t whether to be stunned by his stupidity, or applaude his follow-through. 

In a blatantly obvious statement, Swedish psychologist Siv Underlivh, who is probably wondering where his career took a wrong turn, said, “To attempt to have intercourse with a hornet’s nest is a very bad idea.”

Men, don’t fall victim to the temptations of the hive. It’s not all happy bees, balloons, and the abundance of honey that Pooh made it out to be.

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We Don’t Get PMS, We Get Superhero Powers; And Always Brand Tampons Really Needs to Get Their Shit Together

Disclaimer: Guys, I’m talking about lady business. So if you’re squeamish, skip this one.

I really don’t understand why women get so pissed off when their boyfriends/husbands/man friends ask them if they’re on their periods when they are being bitchy. 9 times out of 10, if I’m being little Miss Cunt-Faced McBitchMouth, it’s because I’m PMS’ing and, when Calm-Ass Husband reluctantly puts on his suit of armor and bravely asks, “Babe, are you going to start your period soon?” I can stop and say, “Oh yeah…..I am. Sorry.”

The tenth time, I grow blades out of my knuckles all Wolverine style and charge him with bile spewing out of my mouth. That’s when he realizes we are closer to the monthly D-day than he initially thought. Hence the armor.

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Sidenote: Because Mother Nature is one fucked up bitch with a HI-larious sense of humor, my PMS-induced violent aggressiveness is also accompanied by hits of super-human horniness. So it’s not uncommon for the Calm-Ass Husband to get a text from me saying, “When we get home, I am going to ride you like I’m competing in the Amazing Race.” And then that text is followed up with, “And then I’m going to punch you square in the face.” He usually comes home looking both hopeful and terrified. At some point this is going to cultivate a phenomenon of “terror boners,” wherein he gets boners every time he is scared, which could make for an awkward situation should armed gunmen ever break into our home in the middle of the night and confront poor CAH.

I don’t really like the term PMS. I prefer the term “Hormone-loading.” Kind of like carbo-loading before a big marathon, us women like to hormone-load to refill our super powers of sub-human strength and extreme food consumption abilities.

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The problem is that the makers of tampons and maxi pads do nothing to make this monthly trip to earth-hell any easier.

Seriously, what the fuck is this, Always?

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Always, when I’m on my period, by the time I’ve put down the half-gallon of ice cream and potato chips, rolled my ass off the couch, pulled on my most forgiving pair of yoga pants and hoodie, and sluggishly elephant-stomp myself and my 7 extra pounds of water-weight to Walgreens to buy maxi pads, the last thing I need to see is how incredibly thin and active you are. If anything, rubbing that in my face will bring out one of the most dangerous super powers of hormone-loading: Hulk strength. Also, when my Hulk strength comes out, I have Hulk’s temper, and I will proceed to Hulk-smash every Always product in the aisle. And when all the poor Walgreens workers come running to restrain me, I will pump my fists in the air, screaming at the top of my lungs, shaking them all off effortlessly before I stomp my way to the candy aisle and double-fist Reese’s Peanut Butter cups into my angry Hulk mouth.

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And what the HELL is this??

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Limited Edition Radiant Collection? Always, unless you dipped these tampons in gold and had each one personally signed by Tory Burch so that when I use them I can make my husband call me “Golden Burch Cooch” (which is awesome and I may just make him do that anyways), you’re not fooling us. Do you really think us women are that stupid and naive that we are buying your Limited Edition Radiant Collection all, “Ooooo it’s Limited Edition Radiant Collection? I’m getting these a velvet dust cover and make a YouTube tampon-haul video”? It’s actually insulting. Because first of all, when we are on our periods, we are feeling anything but “radiant,” and trust me, the power of suggestion is not going to work when bloating has given us moonface, our skin has taken on the consistency of sandpaper, and our cravings are so fucked up that we will happily dump a jar of grape jelly into a tub of butter and spoonfeed ourselves (as an example….not saying I’ve actually done that….don’t fucking judge me, ok?).

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And Walgreens, I have a beef with you too. For those of you men who were brave enough to stick with me through this bloody tale, I’ll let you in on some period industry knowledge. We choose our tampons based on grams of blue stuff it holds. By the way, we don’t actually bleed blue stuff, despite what all of the commercials would have you believe. It’s actually red like normal blood. But I can understand how years of believing that we bleed red everywhere else, and then inexplicably bleed blue out of our hoo-has would make this whole period thing weird and creepy. I assure you, it’s red.

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So we buy our tampons based on grams of fluid it holds, and SOME of us have to buy what I refer to as the “period trough,” because we deal with more than just a period. It’s like our vagina murdered someone and then panicked and pleaded with us to help it hide the body. On a related note, I want to know who these women are who only need the “light” tampons and maxi pads. In my head, I’ve imagined them as tiny little blondes who wear Ralph Lauren polos and headbands, and when they feel their periods coming on, they scrunch up their little button-noses, let out a tiny mouse-like squeak while tensing up slightly, and then they’re done til next month.

But for those of us with slaughterhouses in our uterus, we need the period troughs, and tampon boxes are nice enough to let us know just how much each tampon size will hold so we can choose accordingly. But it doesn’t do us a lot of good when WALGREENS only carries the second most absorbent tampon across ALL brands. I sat in their tampon aisle for ten minutes, reading each box and, without fail, the highest absorbency I could find was the second to the highest. LOOK!

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So then I was thinking, what if the very highest tampons are so big that they can’t keep them on the shelves? I’m going to have to swallow my pride and walk up to the pharmacist and ask for a period trough? He will realize that the fact that I am asking for a full trough, coupled with the fact that I am not blonde, or wearing a Ralph Lauren polo shirt, means that I am likely going to blow at any second. So he will calmly put on his suit of armor and summon his team of tiny midgets with shields who cautiously roll out a wheelbarrow holding a tampon the size of a twin bed mattress. Then as I look at him, with my eyes slowly turning red and fangs growing out of my gums, I’ll say, “Are the midgets necessary?” and he’ll says, “This one’s on the house if you calmly leave. We all have taser guns and will use them if necessary.” At which point I’ll just laugh and say, “Tasers are a mere tickle against my hormones of rage,” and then I’ll take my mattress tampon and elephant-stomp my way back home.

And Always, if you ever make a maxi pad labeled, “Fat, bloated, horny and angry,” I will personally buy 12 cases within the first month of its release.

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