I’ve long suspected that there is an evil puppeteer pulling strings in my brain behind the scenes, working to make certain aspects of my life as miserable as possible. Getting sick when it’s least convenient? Evil puppeteer. Low self-esteem thoughts just before having to do some manner of public speaking engagement? Evil puppeteer. However, the field in which it performs its best (worst) work is ladybusiness.
I first began to suspect the presence of the evil puppeteer in the summer of 2000. I had just graduated from high school, and my family had moved across the country three weeks before I was scheduled to fly overseas for a year. After a lot of “never going to forget you” melodramatic teenage sex in Wisconsin, in California I realized that my period was late. Very late. And there I was, trapped in my grandparents’ home with no social network to speak of, parents who didn’t know I was sexually active, no way to get my hands on a pregnancy test, and no way to privately take one if I HAD managed to get one. I left for Taiwan, fully convinced that I’d be bringing home my parents’ three-month-old grandchild by the time I returned. The day after I arrived in Taipei, I got my period, and had to pantomime to my new host parents that I needed tampons. There’s really nothing like bridging a culture gap by sticking an imaginary plug in one’s vagina in front of people you’ve known for less than twelve hours, especially when you barely know the word for “hello” and the people in question may suspect that you’re looking for male companionship instead of sanitary products. I concluded there was some sort of evil presence in my brain, trying to mess with me as much as possible, though I was relieved about the whole not being knocked up thing.
The evil puppeteer (let’s call him Balthazar) has been messing with me more lately. Sensing that one of his final ladybusiness opportunities was coming in August, Balthazar yet again convinced me that I was pregnant, days before my operation, sending Jason out to the store to buy pregnancy tests while I cried and chugged water at home. When the test came up negative, I cried some more relieved tears and then immediately started my period. At least no pantomime was involved this time.
Since I’ve had my tubes tied, I thought Balthazar would have less power over me, but so far this does not seem to be the case. If things were proceeding on schedule, I was supposed to get my period just in time to ruin our Halloween Horror nights trip to Los Angeles…and it seemed like it was going to start, but then stopped suddenly. Tubal pregnancies aren’t entirely unheard of, so I took a pregnancy test when we got home: negative. Balthazar had evidently decided that wasn’t the event he wanted to ruin. Instead he was shooting for the next weekend, Carrie’s wedding, in which I was set to be a bloated bridesmaid. Things ramped up, but when her wedding got canceled, they stopped. I took another pregnancy test: negative. Balthazar then could have taken the easy way and tried to ruin Halloween weekend, but in his evil wisdom, he realized that if he held off for just one more week, he could wreak even more havoc: he could ruin our one year anniversary. So, sure enough, three weeks late and the day before our anniversary, he threw the gears in motion and unleashed the worst period I’ve had in years. Cramps so painful I could hardly breathe without moaning, so bad I couldn’t sleep, so bad I had to keep a heating pad strapped to me at all times. The day of our anniversary, I was determined to get dressed up and enjoy the fancy dinner we’d been planning on having, so I tried to kill the cramp pain with some of the pain pills I had leftover from my surgery. While they didn’t take away the pain, they did make me nauseated, leaving me dry heaving and crying over the toilet an hour before we were supposed to leave, weeping that I still wanted to get dressed up and go because it wouldn’t be the same if we celebrated on any other day. So we did get dressed up and went to dinner at John Howie Steakhouse. I was only able to have a few bites of everything since Balthazar clenched my stomach every time I took a bite of anything, but I can tell you that tempura fried bacon is amazing, lobster mashed potatoes are equally so, and the only way I can explain why my steak was so tender was that the cow it came from must had died of happiness. I wasn’t feeling up to having any dessert, but the waiter insisted and sent us home with some meyer lemon pie and chocolate truffles, since he felt we could not properly celebrate an anniversary without it. Even the leftovers the next day were amazing.
Screw you, Balthazar.
I may have wept with laughter at the idea of pantomiming a tampon. Oh man. On an insane workday, this is exactly what I needed to pick me up.
Also, Balthazar is the perfect name. I’m going to read this aloud to Tom tonight.
Yet another of those moments where I knew that while it wasn’t funny at the time, it would be funny later. And it took about 10 years for the humiliation to wash away so it could finally be funny.
At first I thought you wrote “Baltar” and I was like :snort: “I’ll bet he cries all the goddamned time too!”
…but then it wasn’t. But I was still funny for like, 5 seconds.
Please, I don’t have the Cylon cult-leading Jesus somewhere in my brain.
Sweet Jesus, I just realized I have one too. At work at an outdoor event with literally no other women on site, wearing white shorts? BAM Evil puppeteer.
Going on a 6 hour car trip? Flu. BAM Evil puppeteer.
I think you hit the nail on head with this one. I wonder what mine is named?
Based on the evidence, I think there’s a strong possibility that you have one as well. I bet his name is Dinhabah.
Hahaha Keeks, Baltar! I’m naming mine that from now on.
I think our ovaries must have similar dispositions… I got the joy of visiting with Gaius a day before our wedding. It was two weeks EARLY. SINCE WHEN ARE YOU EVER EARLY, YOUMOTHERFUCKINGCYLONFUCKER!?!
Still angry over that one.
btw, you guys are incredibly cute together. Happy one year!
Seriously, WTF!? It’s like our bodies are actively working against us. I have decided that if and when the time comes, I am going to go back on the pill just for period-controlling capabilities so I don’t have to worry about ruining the only item of white clothing I’m ever likely to own.
And thank you!
There is nothing like experiencing a menometrorrhagia hurricane at the grocery store on the way to Shakespeare in the Park with the new male friend from work you don’t really know THAT well. (But who do you ever know THAT well?) It turned out to be a bonding experience, but having to schlep pads and tampons in a clear, plastic bag (WHAT? no paper bags?!) to your picnic is, well, gross. I’ll just say, thank god he raised three girls. He’s more of a girl than I am. 🙂 Still…
I remember the look on his face when he saw me, white as a sheet, exit the bathroom after 15 minutes and several futile attempts to stop the storm surge with every supply available in my purse. “Are you… okaaaaay?” He did offer to drive me straight home, but it was MacBeth, his favorite Bard play, and he hadn’t seen it performed before. So, we all got a great kick out of “Out damned spot!…”