If You Own A Pair Of Testicles, Move Along, There's Nothing To See Here

I know you guys are all enlightened and crap these days. You've learned that it is possible to buy a box of tampons without having your balls shrivel and fall off. And even if the cashier has to do a price check, you are confident that nobody will mistakenly assume they are for you.

But when we actually start talking menstrual mechanics and er, specifics, you men still go all squiggly eyed and green around the gills and back nonchalantly yet quickly out of earshot.

Fair warning. I am about to overshare.

Yesterday we went to my Mom's and during dinner I suddenly felt that icky trickling sensation that any girl over the age of 13 knows means to head for the nearest bathroom immediately. Holding a purse over your butt if you have the misfortune to be wearing white pants at the time.

I visited the bathroom to confirm what I already knew. Aunt Flo and Uncle Red were visiting for Christmas and they're messy houseguests.

I am a confirmed Divacup convert, but said Divacup was residing at home being ecologically sound and completely useless in practical applications since it was in fact nowhere near my vagina. Therefore I found myself sadly lacking supplies. Did I mention my Mom is menopausal?

I immediately began to consider alternate uses for Pampers, size 4. However it was 3:00 in the afternoon, we were going to be there for quite a few more hours and Meredith hadn't pooped yet that day.

I felt using the one and only spare diaper for my own purposes was tempting the wrath of the Poop Gods.

I considered appropriating one of her towels but didn't think my Mom would appreciate my decidedly un-Martha Stewart transformation of wash rag to, well, RAG rag.

I ransacked the closet hoping I had left behind a not-so-sentimental piece of my adolescence, but came up with nothing except that cursed waxing kit.

I did however discover a package of Depends.

Seems the sneezing and peeing thing won't be improving with the passage of time.