By Molly Kight

Last evening, I spied my husband wistfully staring into one of my bathroom drawers, still stuffed with various feminine hygiene products.  “Ahem…” I cleared my throat. He looked hazy. “What are you doing?” I wanted to know.

“Oh nothing,” he sighed, “Just remembering the good old days.”

I miss those days too: a little cramp here, some zits along my jaw line, and breasts more tender than a slow-cooked hen—all the while being controlled by Lucifer himself. Good times, good times…

Nowadays, when I am having a good day, it usually consists of trying (unsuccessfully) to put on fake eyelashes, ignoring my scale, and not dropping an iron skillet on my step-son’s head. A good day means only having hot flashes every other hour, and using only one Kleenex to wipe away tears after opening an email photo of a fuzzy kitten sitting in a bowl of spaghetti.

On a bad day I spin my head around 360° and vomit beef barley soup. I just went to Costco yesterday and there is already no milk left, and Frosted Wheat shreds are sprinkled on my formerly clean counters. On a day like this, my husband will call me about a dozen times on his way home to gauge my mood. If he senses the tide turning for the worst, he’ll find something to do outside, like watch the grass grow. I have seen him go to bed as early as 6pm to avoid confrontation with the Hormonal Hellion. An avid couch potato, my sweetheart knows that on a night like this, the only thing he will be watching is the Bitch Network, with my 850 channels and HD (Highly Demented) picture.

This is my life after my “hysterical-ectomy.”

Hysteria (noun): 1. An uncontrollable outburst of emotion or fear, often characterized by irrationality, laughter, weeping, etc. 2. a psychoneurotic disorder characterized by violent emotional outbreaks, disturbances of sensory and motor functions and various abnormal effects due to autosuggestion.

The term originates with the Greek term, hysterikos. This medical condition, particular to women, was thought to be caused by disturbances of the uterus, hystera in Greek. The term hysteria was coined by Hippocrates, who thought that suffocation and madness arose in women whose uteri had become too light and dry from lack of sexual intercourse.

Oh, I see, Hippo, if women don’t have enough sex, they dry up and go crazy. Who knew that Hippocrates was the originator of pornography? Go soak your head in olive oil and put on an itchy, wool toga, Hippocratic Oaf.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I unceremoniously threw my feminine assortment into a plastic Rite-Aid bag: mini-pads (for lighter days), panty-liners (I am not sure exactly what those are supposed to do), pads with wings and dry weave (sounds like a bird and her nest), thong liners and tampons. By the time I was done loading the bag, it occurred to me that I was about to throw out $200 of battened, quilted, and rolled up cotton. What was I thinking? Tossing “The Fabric of Our Lives” was un-American, not to mention eco-unfriendly. I just couldn’t do it.

In a brilliant epiphany, I called my friend Trina and said, “Hey Treen, You still have your uterus, right?”

There was a long pause and then a tentative, “Yeah, why? Did you want to borrow it?”

“No, Silly,” I rambled, “I was cleaning out my tampon drawer today and thought of you.”

Another cessation, and Trina says, “Let me get this straight. You thought of me when you cleaned out your tampon drawer? Maybe you should get hormone replacement therapy and call me back another time?” she advised.

I hung up and looked for a noose.

Being the hysterical woman I am, I tend to turn to humor to push me through a day that has already started out confusing and somewhat humiliating. I searched for the label-maker in the cupboard amongst placemats, spilled Skin-So-Soft, obsolete cell phone cords, and a dog brush full of cat hair– go figure. It took me 15 minutes to find it because I remembered it as a red machine, when in fact, it was blue.

Though I hadn’t utilized it in about two years, it was fully loaded with label tape: a good sign that I interpreted as encouragement to go forward with my plan. I began to type in frenzy, as if I were texting a friend to tell her I saw Cher go into Jack-In-the-Box.

I pushed the Tic-Tac-sized “print” button, heard Wall-E sounds, and pulled the “cut” lever. I snickered as I fumbled with the adhesive and paper separation. I got my bag of pads n’ ‘pons and greeted it. “hi gene,” I giggled at my witticism. I dumped the bag on the dining room table like a bucket of clams. I sorted the items by style and use, commencing with an ultra absorbent, Milano cookie-shaped pad. “if you are looking for wings -go to KFC,” I adhered to the rip strip on the back and looked for my bag of Pepperidge Farm Chocolate Milanos. I chuckled and punched in another clever quip, printed and peeled. “eat, bleed, and be mary.” I was entertained and queasy at the same time.

Next, “keepin’ the cotton industry alive!” In these economic times, we have to support our agrarians.

Still smirking, I busied myself, therapeutically working through years of feminine angst. Here I was, a grown woman, pasting labels to feminine paraphernalia in place of doing my taxes. Still feeling empathy for those who must use, I offered, “check out our website www.chocolateondemand.com for a valuable coupon.”

A clever peel to reveal idea, “and the oscar goes to…”

A panty-liner got this somewhat tacky script: “if you put this deodorant liner near your ear, you shouldn’t smell the ocean.” I began to laugh so hard, I cried and piddled a little in my pants. Darn it, I could have used that panty liner.

“Is your patience as thin as this pad?” I nodded an emphatic “yes” and added it to the pile building shoulder high. I bundled everything with a rubber band from last night’s asparagus and made one more “crotchety” comment, “if you are reading this, you probably are not pregnant.”

Progressing, I picked up the pizza slice shaped, thong pads: I don’t know why I purchased those in the first place. When I was having ‘that time of the month,’ the last thing I was concerned with was panty lines. Feeling like a pond cadaver from an episode of CSI is not going to inspire me to wear white, snug Daisy Dukes. Along the same lines of thinking, why not order a double decaf espresso with sugar free vanilla and then add whipped topping. What is the point? That’s my point, thong pads are assinine. (Some pun!) I advise, “narrow end faces back.”

I perkily chirped to no-one in particular, “I know a funny one…does this pad make my butt look fat?” Oh, I knew that would be a side splitter. I continued labeling the wedgies and secured them into a bouquet-like bunch with another rubber band.

Folks at home, sing with me, “Roll out the tampons, roll out the tampons of fun.” After putting two ‘pons aside for future nose bleeds, I began with, “TNT. This tampon will explode in 5 seconds.”

There were more brainy stickers where that came from, “diploma inside.”

Why not some quality control information, “carefully inspected by count dracula.” Oooh, that one was sick. Mu-hu-wahaha!

Last but not least,“you have just won a chance to compete on ‘american midol!’” Simon Cowell would crawl away, whimpering while performing Hari-kari.

The front door swung open and in walked my teenage step-son. One look at my pile on the table, and he high tailed it to his room, intent on avoiding my genius at work. I knew it was time to put away the bag, yet I was still inspired. So I will have to string you along until the next installment of hormonal ravings. Stay tuned for Songs, Stories, and Holiday Favorites of the hormonally deranged- same HD channel.