Thank God I married Roger Rabbit.
Warning: descriptive female issues in this post.
“OH FOR THE LOVE OF…”
“What is it?”
“Day Eight apparently.”
“Are we in the playoffs?”
My baleful eyes could burn through steel.
“I am BLEEDING out. I was done. The Diva Cup was empty.”
David winces in naive male sympathy/horrified visualization. “And now the cup runneth over?”
“No the cup does not runneth over because I wasn’t wearing the frickin’ cup because my body is a lying liar pants and can’t make its peri-menopausal mind up! IT WAS EMPTY THIS MORNING!!!” I raise my fist to the 2nd floor bathroom where the Diva Cup is now residing. “YOU WERE EMPTY!!!”
I ease off the couch and look down – at least there’s no blood on the upholstery. I carefully glide my way to the bathroom, crossing my fingers that I’ll only have to wash my panties, not the jeans as well. I don’t know why washing jeans seems to add insult to injury, but it does.
I stand before the toilet, Keigeling every muscle in my pelvis. I take a deep breath before undoing my belt. As soon as I sit to examine the undergarment damage, I feel another deluge.
“COME ON!!!”
“Love? You okay?”
“They’re the size of TOONIES!”
“What are?”
“The blood clots that just left my body.” A blinding cramp hits me. I don’t know if the blood loss is actually making me dizzy or if it’s having witnessed most of my uterine lining leave my body.
David pipes up from the living room. “It could be worse.”
“How?!?”
“They could be blood clots the size of tunas.”
Thank God I married Roger Rabbit. Without laughter my sanity would have abandoned me years ago.