Hey, I'm Talking to Your Daughter About Menstruation

A while ago, my mother-in-law signed my wife up, most likely unsolicited, for a subscription to "Reader's Digest." I'm sure there are people out there who enjoy "Reader's Digest." I'm equally sure that most of them are over the age of 77. The first time, in fact, that I can ever recall seeing an issue of "Reader's Digest" was at my Bubba's apartment in Center City, and she owned a velour sofa, a television with a vacuum tube, and knee highs. She also cooked unrecognizably burnt liverwurst hamburgers that my sister and I delighted in flinging off her 18th story balcony.

I don't know your feelings on this subject, but, to me, giving someone a subscription to "Reader's Digest" is basically like giving them a year's worth of diarrhea, or a year's worth of fingernail clippings. A year's worth of, well, liverwurst hamburgers.

Mrs. Apron reads the "Reader's Digests" that she receives with what appears to be a mixture of apathy and interest, which admittedly is a tenuous combination. Her eyes, however, sparkled last night as she got to one particular advertisement.

"Here, Bobber," she said to me with a devilish grin, "this can be your blog topic for tomorrow."

Indeedy-doo.

It's a full-page advert, courtesy of your friends at "Always." A young-looking, improbably hot mom with long, chestnut hair draped lovingly over improbably pert 36-Bs sits Stage Right. She's lightly touching the chin of her slightly awkward-appearing daughter, with unfortunate bangs, who is gazing almost soulfully into her mother's eyes, as if said mother were in the process of dispensing some carefully-guarded pearls of MILF wisdom.

And she certainly is. She is talking to her daughter about menstruation and, by the same token, she is...

TALKING TO YOUR DAUGHTER ABOUT MENSTRUATION

"Although most girls get their first period around age 12," the ad copy states, "some start menstruating as early as age 8. That's why explaining what's ahead is so important."

* "The best appeoach is to start early and speak often. Don't wait for one 'big talk.' Provide age-appropriate information and let her know you're okay discussing it."

I don't know that I agree wholeheartedly with this first one. I'm a pretty ardent proponent of the "big talk." I would recommend renting out a boardroom of a local hospital or corporate entity-- the more formal the better-- perhaps with some austere oil paintings of stern-looking middle-aged or elderly men in tweed suits staring down over spectacles with one wily eyebrow raised. This will make your daughter aware of the importance of the information that you are about to reveal to her, and will enhance the gravitas of your presentation. Remember, don't be afraid to yell. Yelling drives home the important points.

* Talk about all the issues of puberty - physical changes, reproduction, menstruation, etc. There's a lot to cover."

Whoa, Always peeps-- we're supposed to have this marathon conversation with our eight-year-olds? Reproduction? Shit, man. You're damn right-- there IS a lot to cover. Renting this boardroom isn't coming cheap, you know. You might have to throw on a few extra hours, just to cover foreplay alone!

* "Let her know everyone's body is different and development comes at different times for every girl."

This is also known as the "It's okay that you're completely and utterly flat-chested" talk. Yeah... have fun with that.

* "Always put the discussion in apositive light. Explain that menstruation is a wonderful part of being a woman - without it, women couldn't become mothers!"

Right, because your eight-year-old daughter really gives a big honkin' shit about that. In other words-- lie through your goddamn teeth, leave out all the unpleasantness about that first horrifying drip on the floor during the 6th period math test, the cramps, the bloating, the misery, the scores of stupid, incompetent men who just don't get it and, at the high school prom, will suggest doing you "in the mud" as a viable alternative to vaginal intercourse while you're menstruating. Oh, and don't you love how they start this one off with the word "Always"? Just can't resist dropping that brand name, can you, bitches?

* "Have a book available if your daughter would like to look at it."

Great advice. Any particular one you have in mind? "To Kill a Mockingbird" maybe?

* "If your daughter doesn't bring up the subject, get the conversation started by asking her what she knows about puberty and what questions she has. Time this with a doctor's appointment and let her know that the doctor can help explain what's going on with her body."

I don't know, man. Getting the conversation started by "asking her what she knows about puberty" doesn't seem like a really creative icebreaker to me. I suggest trying something like this:

Spill some POM Wonderful juice on the white livingroom rug. Turn to your daughter and say, "Janice-- once a month, for a very long time, this is going to be your life. Now clean that shit up, goddamnit, and go to your room for five days. Mommy's going to go in the den and read 'Reader's Digest'."

One Sick Weekend

Being sick for an entire weekend hardly seems like fair dealing-- unless I was John Wilkes Booth, Pol Pot or the creator of "Benson" in a previous life. Even if I was, I could understand maybe being zonked on the couch for a Friday night, or half of Saturday-- but the whole weekend? Come on.

I'm pretty emotionally fragile as I plod my disoriented way through this weekend. I pulled the final tissue from the box and I almost started to cry. Perhaps I'm menstruating. I don't think so, it's pretty clean down there. I know because I've been showering a lot to clear up my sinuses, but I'll bet I still don't smell too good. It's hard to smell like anything but sick when you're sick. At least I don't smell like Vicks Vap-o-Rub-- I don't use shit like that because it's nasty. I think linaments, balms and salves are things of a previous generation. It's hard to imagine someone who uses a bluetooth headset and polarized sunglasses rubbing some kind of foul smelling ointment that has the consistency of chicken fat all over his chest.

I'm not a good patient either. I regress heavily when I'm ill. How unfortunate for my wife. At least I haven't attempted to nurse. I require lots of hugs when I'm sick. Advil, Sudafed, Advair, Rhinocort and whatever the hell else I'm taking don't seem to do anything-- but the hugs are comforting and send my endorphins pinging around my innards in a very positive way.

It's amazing what sickness does to the body and to the mind. One minute I'm yanking out firmly entrenched weeds in our front "garden," and the next I'm flat-on-my-back useless. It's amazing, too, how it can make things like hugs seem like cancer curatives and things like pulling out the last tissue in a box seem like a nuclear catastrophe. Granted, you have to understand that, when I pulled out the final tissue in that box, I had a green goobity hanging down from my nose that was about as long as a BIC pen. Not to mention the ones that had adhered themselves lovingly to my shirtsleeve, pants, shoes.

You really forget what being sick is like when you're healthy. I guess this is why my boss could not understand why I could not help out with some miniscule, unimportant thing on Friday night.

"I doubt you're really sick," she said. "It's probably just the paint fumes in your house."

"I have a fever," I dryly retorted. "Is that from the paint fumes, too?"

"Oh, well, I don't know."

Right. You don't.

She's sixty-one and she works herself into oblivion because she's a martyr and loves to be regarded as the one-woman show who is capable of doing the impossible. When she gets sick she "just ignores it," which I have tried to convince her is a dubious medical practice.

"Well, I never get so sick that I can't DO," she said after I begged off the Friday night obligation.

Ah, I thought, but you should.

I guess it's difficult to blame healthy people for not understanding what it feels like to be sick. The cotton wool feeling in your ears, the brain-encased-in-jell-o sensation, the baseball bat to the kidneys, the baby sheep up the nose-- it's tricky business explaining this to someone who's in prime physical condition, bounding around doing this and doing that, and looking at you suspiciously as you cry over the last tissue in the box.