Waves of Disaster

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When we come up with a theme of the box, we look at a lot of different aspects. We factor in the different seasons or holidays, current events or trends and we consider all of the agonizing things that make periods oh-so-fantastic – cramps, clots, mood swings, feeling like you’re going to poop yourself, etc. One of our boxes, “Waves of Disaster” was developed from the story below. I feel like every girl (except for those fucking unicorns) are destined to experience this at least once in their lifetime. 

Here’s a look into how the “Waves of Disaster” box was created.

So, you know that feeling, right before your period is supposed to start, when you feel a little bit better after all of the wretched PMS symptoms run their course and for a nanosecond you believe she’s surely not coming that day. So you let your guard down and think to yourself, “Screw Mother Nature! It’s hot out, I shaved my legs for the first time in a week. I’m wearing my new white shorts!” You’re pleased to find the shorts fit even after suffering the bloat for a week. You fluff your hair, slap on some lip gloss and head out with your girls. You are carefree and laughing and flirting with anyone with a penis that makes eye contact. You’re so glad you came out tonight instead of hefting into your fat pants to watch Love Actually for the 137th time. Halfway through drinks with the girls though, you feel a twinge in your lower back. You nearly shatter the margarita glass you’re drinking from when you involuntarily bite down. Somehow you just know, the bitch is back.

You’re starting to think participating in the super sampler appetizer platter with all of its golden-fried, greasy goodness was a huge mistake. Your stomach begins to roll. From the top of your gut, a wave of disaster heads south towards the exit. You clutch your bar stool. It rolls and rolls until you are clenching your no-go hole with all of the force you can muster because finally, FINALLY, the hot guy of his group of friends is talking to you and you will not shit yourself. And your uterus is sitting there thinking, “We’re not with child this month? Time to clean out this baby uterapartment! Might as well clear the poop chute while we’re at it!”

You smile at him as he goes on about something you tuned out when you began focusing on the ocean in your stomach and try to decide what’s going to be worse, excusing yourself and running through the bar to the bathroom while clenching your butt cheeks as you trying not to poop down your leg while wearing white shorts, or pooping in a bar bathroom towards the end of the night where the bathroom has been used every two minutes by all of the drunk girls in the place. You choose the bathroom bar option.

You try to catch your friend’s eye to signal a red flag warning for an escape option but to no avail, she keeps flirting with the guy who looks like a goat. You make a mental note to talk to her about that later. Your guts roll and then you feel it. Your uterus constricts and she screams, “RELEASE THE CRIMSON WAVE!” and you know the time has arrived. Now your clenching your no-go hole and doing kegels at the same time to try to contain the mess that’s about to be. The guy you’re talking to stops speaking, gives you a look, and asks if you’re okay. You force a smile that feels more like a toddler flashing a strained grimace as he hides in a corner to poop in his diaper but doesn’t want you to know he’s hiding in a corner to poop in his diaper. The guy steps back.

You leap up from your stool. You already know the look on your face has ruined any chance of a future with this guy,  let alone a kiss goodnight. Before you can say another word you are charging through the bar as quickly as you can waddle, feeling slightly impressed with your butt muscles and that your yoga classes are paying off. Your friend is trailing along behind you but you get separated in the crowd. You burst into the bathroom where there are two stalls and 25 women. Tears well up in your eyes. This is it. You’re going to shit yourself in the bar bathroom.

Then, the miracle that is drunken women in a bar bathroom suddenly opens up and everyone is your best friend. They are screaming at the girls in the stalls to get out. One is patting your back, another offers to hold your hair back. You are pushed ahead and into a now open stall where your teary vision causes you to fumble with the lock twice. You yank your shorts down and by some kind of miracle, they’re still immaculate and your undies are clear. You make it just in time to let go, let flow. There is a sudden gasp and a few shrieks from the other side of the stall as the fight or flight instinct kicks in. Some girls run screaming from the bathroom, others ask if you’re okay. The bathroom door bangs open again and as you strain, you hear your friends voice calling your name.

The girls in the bathroom direct her to the stall. “It’s her period,” your friend says. The atmosphere in the bathroom changes from that of disgust to total understanding. Shrieks of terror turn to groans of sympathy. From inside the stall, you catch your breath and wipe your face with some toilet paper. “Does anyone have a tampon?” You croak. From under the stall door, three hands immediately offer up supplies. Although you’ve destroyed the stall for the rest of the evening, lost out on a potential date with a hot guy, and nearly shit yourself at the bar, you survived the waves of disaster in a public place. You exit the stall on wobbly legs and wash your hands, thanking others for the support. Your friend knows the night is over and when you leave the bathroom, you head out the back door.

As you wait for your Uber to arrive, she drapes an arm over your shoulders and says, “You know, this all could have been avoided had you just bought the Waves of Disaster Bitchy Box.”

Head over to Bitchy Box to see the “Waves of Disaster” box yourself and for others like it. There are a few individual boxes left if you don’t want to commit to a subscription with a contract signed in blood. 😉

Box Sister 2

The Magical Cervix Gates

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“How was your day?” Husband asked. He rustled through the fridge looking for things to assemble some sort of adult dinner(i.e., something that didn’t involve frozen chicken nuggets or freezer burned pizza).

“I learned all about my cervix!” I said sarcastically, scrolling through the news on my phone. A few weeks ago after Mother Nature sucker punched my uterus and proved to me that I was in fact not pregnant, again, I started researching things on my lunch break which only led me to WebMD where I diagnosed myself with Ebola, cancer, and a gall bladder that was ready to explode.

Husband half closed the fridge door and peered one eye at me trying to connect the dots as to what I was talking about. The gears were turning as he pondered whether he wanted to know more, or let it go.

“Oh?” he said.

“Yep. I learned all about how it’s supposed to do all these magical things to inform me that it’s time to tango between the sheets.”

“Oh!” he said, more interested. He grabbed a jerky stick from the cheese drawer and shut the fridge to lean against the kitchen counter.

“Oh yeah,” I said. “I also found a site where a doctor took an internal picture of a chicks cervix every single day of her cycle to show all sorts of things like colors, and fluids, and textures.” (Side note: who the hell offers up their cervix like that for a photo project…I mean I’ve heard of the “Pic of the Day” type deals but usually it’s a picture of your feet on the beach or a blurred picture of your ugly cat. Not your cervix).

“Uhhh…” Husband said, slightly disgusted. “Yeah?”

“Yep. And apparently the cervix gates just don’t open up every day when you want them to. That’s the whole “timing” thing.”

Okay let’s just pump the breaks right here. Back in 5th grade, circa 1995 or so, the 5th grade teachers split our two classes up into the boys room and the girls room and we all watched a video specific to our bodies (I have somewhat of a photographic memory and I SWEAR there was nothing in that video about a cervix, let alone how it worked and the importance of mastering the opening of the cervix gates). We were also taught all about what kind of protective measures to take (pack a pad kit for your backpack, wear cotton underwear, etc. I remember thinking I was destined to wear granny panties the rest of my life in fear my period would just explode one day and catch me off guard. Which I guess sometimes, isn’t entirely impossible).

Anyway, the real reason I probably don’t remember much of that sex ed experience is because my friend and I sat in the back of the girls class to stare through the gap in the accordion fold wall into the boys class where we could clearly see what was happening on the TV strapped to the cart someone had rolled into the room. I remember looking at my friend with big round eyes and all she said was “Whatever. I have a brother. I’ve seen it all.”

I switched to my Meijer app and started clipping coupons. “So apparently you have to like, stick your digits up there and feel around for it.” *scroll, scroll*

My husband shook his head slowly, jerky stick halfway to his mouth.

“I learned all about it on my lunch break and when I um…checked…it was literally exactly they way the article said it would be. It was really weird.” *scroll*

Husband stared at me slack jawed.

I clipped another coupon and noticed that my husband had gotten very quiet. I glanced up.

“You…checked?”

“Well, yeah. How the hell else am I supposed to know what I’m looking for and when it’s supposed to be ideal cruising conditions?”

“On your lunch break?!” he hissed.

“Yeah,” I said slowly. “I was on my phone, not my work computer. It’s not that big of a deal. My office door was closed. I always read on my break.”

Husband stared at me and I felt like I was missing something.

“What?” I set my phone down.

“But…your lunch break?!” he hissed again.

And then I saw him glance south, towards my…

“No!” I shouted. “Oh my God! Really?!”

“What?! I don’t know! You said you did it on your lunch break!”

“Yeah, I READ about but I certainly didn’t…ew! Really? At work?”

“Well I don’t know! You were talking about it so casually!”

“Because reading is a casual sport!”

My husband finished his jerky and wiped his hands on his jeans. He leaned back again and crossed his arms over his chest.

“So…” he said.

“So?”

“So…are the magical cervix gates open?”

Let’s Get Flowing!

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Mother Nature woke me up before my alarm clock by doing Olympic sized cartwheels and backflips on my uterus. This was NOT happening. I had a whole list I wanted to get checked off before we left for a family BBQ that afternoon. I had food to prep, things to clean, and places to go! I was on a mission. Screw that bitch!

My first stop: the bathroom, where I confirmed facts as Mother Nature graciously presented herself in all her Technicolor glory. I almost shattered the bathroom mirror. With the ink just barely dry on our marriage license, my new husband of about six months and I were trying to coordinate a rendezvous for his swimmers and my egg to meet up in the tubes. Being greeted by Mother Nature every month on repeat was getting pretty old. I took care of business in the bathroom and left for my errands with a slight chip on my shoulder. Okay, the chip was the size of a triple layer fudge mousse cake (which I could have devoured in seconds), but whatever.

As items and tasks were checked off my list, I began to feel the wretched pull of sluggishness and lethargic tendencies that that bitch brings with her every month packed in her bag of tricks as big as a TSA approved 8-piece luggage set. I made it back home and let myself sit on the couch for FIVE MINUTES and promptly woke up two hours later with thirty minutes on the clock before we had to be at the BBQ. I shot up from the couch, raced through the kitchen, packed things into bags, wrapped a gift, boiled noodles, squirted mayo, cleaned the stove, fed the dogs, let the dogs outside, signed a card, and started the dishwasher all the while being watched by my husband who was fishing through a package of stale Oreos. The crinkle of the packaging was about to send me through the wall of the kitchen faster than the Kool-Aid Man.

“Stop!” I snapped. “We have to go, like right now! And you’re eating! You’re not even dressed!”

My husband stared back at me, eyes wide, chocolate crumbs around his beard.

“We have a half an hour before we have to go. I needed a snack!”

“We need to be in the car in 30 minutes. Like in the car and on the road.”

“I got it!” he said, fishing out another cookie. “We’re like three miles away.” The crumbs dribbled down his chin and onto his shirt. He casually reached up and brushed the crumbs onto the floor.

I flung my hands up and spun around to scrub the kitchen counter with a sponge. “Don’t worry, Husband!” I said. “I’ll take care of it! I’ve got everything. Just sit there and eat your fucking cookies while I do it all. Why do I always have to be the responsible one?”

My husband stared at me, cookie midway to his mouth, completely perplexed. He squinted, glanced down, and finally pointed at my crotch.

“She needs to leave!” he said. “She needs to go right now.”

“Well wouldn’t it be amazing if it were just that easy!” I flung the sponge at him.

We left the house in record time and got to the BBQ where I tried to act like I wasn’t shedding my uterus at that very moment and tried to contain myself from stuffing my face at the buffet of food that was laid out across the kitchen island. My husband disappeared into the crowd, running for the beer cooler and the safety and security of being at least 50ft away from me. I sat with my sister at the island.

We started talking about how shitty it is that every month girls have to suffer through the sucker punch that Mother Nature throws our way.

“Why couldn’t that bitch bring chocolate salted caramel cheesecake and Cool Ranch Doritos instead of bloating and cramps?” I asked, shoveling Mexican dip into my mouth.

“I know, right?” my sister said. “Like if all the things you wanted magically appeared.”

“Or like a BarkBox!” I said. (Side Note: If you live in a cave and don’t know what a BarkBox is, check it out. Even worse, if you have a dog and haven’t blessed them with the gift of BarkBox, get your credit card and go order. You’ll/they’ll LOVE it!)

“We could make something like a period box full of goodies for when you’re acting like a flat out bitch. A BitchyBox!”

“Yes!” she said. “Seriously that would be the best! Candy and chocolates, and soaps and oils and stuff. We could totally do that!”

We let it go and got drunk at the BBQ. The next day my sister called me at the ass crack of dawn.

“I’m serious,” she said. “We could totally do this. We could create these boxes and pull it off.”

I looked at the clock. “Well I’ve definitely got the bitchy part down.”

“Are you in?”

“Sure,” I said. “Let’s do this. Let’s get flowing.”

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