Menstrual Hut 
Menstrual Madness
We love it; you certainly seem to love it. In short, everyone's as happy as a menstruating woman with ache-less breasts, an un-swollen belly, and an ample supply of chocolate/red wine/marinated tofu/or pears who's just enjoyed her fourth orgasm in as many minutes.
What are we all so chummy about? Menstrual madness, bien sur. This is your corner to kick off your shoes, unbutton the top of your jeans, and tell us all about it. Rant, extoll, complain, share info, and just generally act any ole way you feel about your period. We'll print the best bitches and koans in each month's newsletter, and the winner receives a starter pack of GladRags, this way-cool product that's got reader Jennifer Pratt all agog.
I have discovered GladRags. I must tell you about GladRags because they have changed everything, in that funny way of changing everything back to the way it used to be so that they really have changed nothing. But we have to start at the beginning. When I first got my period I was 12-years-old and wearing my favorite little lightweight pastel jumpsuit. It wasn't one of those hysterical moments that I'd read about in novels generally written by women with either no mothers or too many (i.e. Virgine Maria and Sister Mary Menses). I had been in two schools with excellent sex education, one even using shadow puppets and an overhead projector to scour any mystery from our little minds about how one exactly did "It." . . . Long story short, I knew exactly what it (the bleeding) was, and exactly what to do, although, again, the practicality and exact usage of those items which looked to my like white smashed hot dog buns had escaped me until that exact moment. I never had cramps until much later, and now I still only get them in my lower back, precursors I'm sure to back labor. But what I find even more disturbing is how I'm suddenly breaking out. I get ZITS! I'm 25-years-old, rarely had a blemish (I know, hate me, hate me), and now I'm suddenly getting zits every month. Here's another thing, and I tell you this only because it's just us girls right? :-} But my boobs are growing. What's with me and the magic growing boobs? See these are the things they didn't cover in my explicit shadow-puppeting sex-ed class: growing boobs, cellulite, and clitorises. This past month I was so fucking glad to get my period because my boobs hurt the entire month so of course I thought I was pregnant even though I hadn't had sex. Oh, see, there's another thing: does anybody else's PMS include sheer terror of pregnancy even though you haven't had sex all month? That completely irrational "I am the next virgin Mary" thing. . . . Anyway, back on topic: GladRags. I cannot use tampons. Can't. They hurt, and don't give me any goddamn suggestions because I have tried putting them deeper, shallower, using smaller, larger, different brands. So, I'm stuck with these dumb-ass pieces of cotton and plastic. Pads, which actually, if you are active while you are ragging which I sometimes am, give you, yes--a diaper rash, and I am not talking about on your ass, either. Right on the gates to the city of gold. After years of being resigned to chaffed labia, I was walking through a little store in Missoula, MT, and on the feminine products aisle (I'm not even going to go there--feminine products, grumble-mumble) I find these little flannel. . . things in a brown box. And all I can tell you was I felt an instant affinity for Laura Ingalls [Wilder]. I started to truly understand why I ever watched that show. Sisters, our ancestors have something to tell us: flannel pads. Not only are these things environmentally conscious since you wash them with your husband's jeans (recommended!), but also they completely absorb even your chunkiest output (pardon my imagery, but all you clotting sisters know what I'm talking about), and you guessed it--the pearly gates have been chafe-free for over a year now. They snap on like those wing-thingies, and they are beyond comfy. So I have gone forward by going back. Three cheers for the pioneers, Laura Ingalls, and the magic of flannel!
GladRags
First, I have to say that I am one of the truly lucky women of the world whose period is not a major ordeal during the actual period. It's the seven days before that drive me to mania!!! I'm talking chocolate obsessing (7-11 runs at 3 a.m.); water-retaining (despite the 2 gallons of water I drink daily); man-hating (as if it could get any worse); self-hating (I could be Madonna and I'm convinced I'm a troll); over-sensitive (normal--just amplified 10 times); out-of-control psychic/psychotic epsisodes (not really able to differentiate one from the other); horniness that deserves a Richter scale rating ( as if you haven't already picked up on those signals); all of them experiences that I get to look forward to every single month!!! Like right at this very #*!?^#* moment (yes, it's the official F-word)!!!! Whew. . . Thanks (Oops, an overly swollen nipple just swiped by my kitty wanting to play)--I'm outta here!!
What if instead of bleeding, we just smelled like chocolate for five days? If that happened, I would feel better and eat less chocolate during the rest of the month, everywhere you went, foul smells of the city and elsewhere would disappear, Hershey would go out of business, the idea of "eating a woman out" would take on new meaning, men's locker rooms would still stink, people would hug more, people would make love more . . . the possibilities are endless--but I'm too crabby to think about any more.
--mm
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