How do you sponsor a child? Catholic edition

I promise the Catholic posts will stop soon once I leave Ireland. My sister has finally gone through the last round of becoming the holiest she can possibly get. There’s no way she’s becoming a saint so it’s all downhill from here.

The day was going fine until my family got into a tug-of-war battle over the pew we were assigned to with one other family. We were each given one half of a pew reserved for as many members of your family that you could fit.

We took this as a challenge.

The four of us spread out to save spots for the seven of us. It became tense when the family we were up against arrived early like little bitches (really they were on time but fuck them).

At first, I was feeling confident. I was wearing a new dress that was both tight and made me look like a mermaid. Also, I was wearing a fresh pair of flesh-colored tights my Nana described as the “palest you can get”.

I was the last person on my family’s side so I was shoulder to shoulder with the mother of the opposing family. A mama bear. A woman with long fake nails and fake tanner that was rubbing off on my pale tights. A fighter.

Over the course of a few minutes, she managed to slowly scoot her butt down the pew effectively using me as a domino for my family’s demise. Without making eye contact she repeatedly muttered under her breath, “We each get half the pew” as if she was confrontational but not good with eye contact.

My Nana pushed back to no avail. I was too much of a pussy. I just wanted everyone to get along in the house of God, partially because I like being better than Catholics. It’s good for the soul.

During the mass when everyone turns to their neighbor and says, “Peace be with you” with a handshake I decided to extend an olive branch. Terrible idea. I broke rank. My family felt betrayed and I lost my seat.

With just one buttcheek on the pew, I looked at the wooden Jesus on the cross and thought “Now I know what you went through”. Sacrifice.

Finally, it was time to go up with Abigail to act as her sponsor and escort her to the priest to be blessed or something. Don’t ask me what a sponsor is or does because I have no idea. I was just told to put one hand on her shoulder.

You’d think this simple instruction would be easy to follow. I immediately began to panic on which hand and what shoulder. In line, I started massaging her shoulders just to be safe. I felt like I was getting her ready for a boxing match.

Apparently, it’s easier to find a gif of an elephant massage than a boxer getting prepped for the ring.

After the beautiful ceremony, the Catholic school teachers were thanked with gifts from the students. The male teachers received an expensive bottle of wine and the female teachers got flowers. Freaking flowers.

The girls dispatched to deliver the bouquets had difficulty finding the female teachers in the audience. I can guarantee you they wouldn’t have had this problem if it was wine. They’d be tracking the kids down to grab that prize.

The sponsors got a measly prayer for our well being. I call bullshit.

I want wine. And new tights.

Hire me: Skills include catfishing

I’m currently applying for big-kid jobs and while I was trying to find the latest copy of my resume I found pictures of old cards I wrote during an internship while in college. (First day on the job and the only thing on my desk was a dinosaur head (see image above) which was never explained. Ever.)

Background: I worked for a utility company and it was Linemen Appreciation Day so as the intern I gave people pens to fill out the cards. I soon become bored and wrote a couple myself under different pen names while literally using different pens. When I was done I shuffled them throughout the deck and went on my merry way.

To my horror, before they were sent off to the linemen my coworker went through and read every damn card in the 700 pile stack because he casually read one that happened to be mine and was determined to find others like it.

My team got an email a couple hours later with photographs of the most ridiculous ones (all done by me without their knowledge). I basically sent a reply admitting to writing all of the cards and asked them nicely not to fire me.

Here they are:

Babies scare me, especially zombie babies

I recognize I’m young. I revel in my youthfulness because it excuses me from having my life together. However, I have noticed a huge difference now I’m a couple years into my twenties.

I was on the bus from Dublin back to my Nana’s house when a toddler pulled herself up onto the seat next to me. She looked up at her mom and yelled “Mama sit!” and pointed at my seat. As if I was going to give up the seat for her precious mother! As if. I fought for this seat, bitch. This little girl thought she was cute but I knew better than to fall for her charms.

Did I mention I’m a horrible person?

The rest of the bus ride she played one of her baby apps on an IPad that made loud noises the whole bus cringed through. I’m not sure if this happens to all women but the closer you get to your peak as a baby-making machine you see them everywhere. Babies I mean, not IPads. Who buys IPads anymore? Babies.

They’re everywhere just reminding you of your ovaries. I had heard of this phenomenon from women older than me and through film classics like Baby Mama but I didn’t take their wisdom seriously. I’m years away from ever purposely conceiving but I recognize I have to make the decision at some point.

Your babies make me uncomfortable. OK, sometimes they’re cute when they’re dressed up as polar bears. Which is apparently a trend across Europe. It’s amazing.

Here is a baby in a polar bear outfit for your viewing pleasure:

Also, to feed your curiosity, this was also offered up to me when I googled babies dressed up as animals.

Does your baby stay up all night [and dig through your trash]?

Does your baby dream of living in Madagascar?

Or is your baby more of a party animal?

Well, forget about buying your kid a winter coat when you can wrap it in fake fur/jumpsuit!

Basically, I’m terrified of having kids so here’s my plan. I’m going to adopt a lonely 30-year-old when I’m in my 60’s. That way I don’t have to learn childrearing and THEN when I need someone to come over for Thanksgiving I’ll have a grown-ass adult bring over their best pies. Foolproof.

I know what you’re thinking, “There are so many kids who would love to be adopted!” Well, have you ever thought about the kids who weren’t adopted and lived their lives as an orphan and just want an old woman to bring pies to? Hmm? Did you think about that? I’m basically creating a charity.

My plan b involves having a kid and if I don’t like it I can drop it off at an orphanage. Hold on! Hold on! Put down the pitchforks, I’m not done yet. I’d come back when it’s 30 so it can bake me pies. Really it’s a win, win.

In all seriousness, I don’t know how to make the decision to have a kid (singular) or not. I can barely make my mind up about adopting a dog! Any thoughts?

Because I don’t want to tell my future kid/dog/30-year-old stranger that I chose them based on a pro/con list.

P.S. I saw this book cover and realized how much worse it would be to raise a zombie baby. You thought your kid gets messy with mashed peas? Try feeding it brains. Consider yourself #blessed.

Can I have my next pap smear in a Dunkin’ Donuts?

Wait, pause.

Can I first direct your attention to the stock photo I’ve selected as the featured image of this post? It’s hilarious. What is she doing? I think she thinks in a crossover of Greys Anatomy and America’s Next Top Model.

Unpause.

AAHHHHHHH! That was my initial reaction on my 21st birthday. Not joy for the opportunity to be an open alcoholic but the knowledge I had to now undergo one of the last entrances to womanhood: the pap smear.

Wait, pause again! This is an “inappropriate” post (imagine air quotes because it’s more condescending) so please proceed with caution. I’m looking at you, Mom. You’ve been warned.

Unpause. Again.

First of all, why the word ‘smear’? It makes me think of a New Yorker asking for cream cheese. And I love cream cheese. I don’t love a person sticking their head between my legs for medical reasons. The reasoning is important people.

Please let me know if anyone else does this, but if a doctor asks me a question I cannot lie. I think I believe my life depends on it. Even if a doctor asked me if was currently fantasizing about what it’s like to have sex in the gynecologist stirrups I would tell them, “Yes, doctor, that is what I was thinking about. Does that help with your diagnosis?”

So when I had my first pap smear I was scared. I felt like I had to take an oath and share my testimonial with a court. Anything personal between my vagina and me was now up for grabs (literally).

It started out bad… it also was bad in the middle and towards the end. (Sounds like sex with a high school boy, amirite ladies? Oh god, I mean as a high schooler having sex with another high schooler! Like losing your virginity at 16! This is what happens around doctors. It’s like a truth-telling serum.)

Because I was cheap, young and without health insurance (still am), I went to my school’s clinic for a free women’s exam. The nurse practitioner who was to perform the exam came into the room and I immediately felt on edge.

She sounded exactly like my boyfriend’s mother. Similar mannerisms, same Boston accent. Now, there’s nothing wrong with my boyfriend’s mother! You just don’t want your boyfriend’s mother performing your first pap smear (or any of them for that matter).

“I’m with a student, do you mind if she participates today?”

This was my fear. I had a similar situation happen when I was getting birth control when I was 16. In a cramped doctors office, there was my mother, the doctor and a doctoral student all discussing my reproductive symptom. Not again.

“Well?” she said impatiently.

“Um, I’m not too comfortable with that,” I squeaked.

“She’s almost done with school,” she said exasperatedly.

“Sure…” I gave in like a pussy (with a pussy about to be smeared, freaking smeared.)

I had no idea the student was going to do the whole damn thing. The WHOLE thing, smear and all.

She came in looking hella nervous which of course made me panic. She shook my hand and sat down across from me while the nurse practitioner stood in the corner. She explained she had to ask me some routine questions. Understandable.

“What kind of sex do you have?”

I coughed, “Excuse me?”

“Vaginal, oral, anal?”

“Well, when it’s dark who knows what goes where?” I said to lighten the mood.

She stared back.

“Um, vaginal and oral.”

“So no anal?”

“Nope, no anal.”

“Seriously? You’ve never done anal?”

I didn’t know how to answer. Did she think I was lying? Did I look like someone who was on an anal rampage? Did she think I walked funny? Or was she so appalled I could be so boring in the bedroom that I wouldn’t even try anal?

We moved on and she asked me to get undressed.

“Buy me a drink first!”

Nothing, I got nothing in response to that.

When I finally got up on those stirrups the woman was sweating she was so nervous. Was it too hard to ask for her to appear mildly pleased to have the opportunity to go where few had gone before (very few ok! Enough with the jokes)? I looked back at the nurse practitioner and questioned this decision with my eyes. Are you sure you want to give this woman access down there?

To add salt to the wound, the nurse practitioner was standing behind me yelling, “Relax! Just relax”. This would be fine if she didn’t sound like my boyfriend’s mother. Remember? Do you know how traumatizing this was?

Also, I craved a bagel and smear the whole time. Dunkin’ Donuts should team up with women’s health clinics. Except it would be even more likely that my boyfriend’s mother would be there because she loves Dunkin’ Donuts. I told you she has a Boston accent, where did you think she bought her cawfee?

Soon it was over and I was left to get dressed and gather my dignity.

The student came back in to give me a form to give to the front office.

“Seriously though, you should give anal a try,” she said before closing the door.

I’m kidding she never said that but it would’ve made the whole experience totally worth it if she had. Oh well, what are you gonna do? Pap smears.

I’m not a teenage mother but if I was you shouldn’t judge me

My kid sister* has been sick the last few days so we set up an appointment at the doctor’s office. My parents stuck their head into my room (my nana’s living room**) and asked if I’d take her that afternoon. Half-asleep I agreed. With ten years between us, I had always been seen as an understudy to my mother.

*The featured image was chosen for two reasons: it was a picture of my sister when she was still cute enough to get away with things and also because this story takes place in Ireland and for some reason, she looks like a leprechaun.

**I always have to clarify this but I’m only staying for a couple weeks before I continue my travels so I’m not couch surfing indefinitely. I clarify this for you and border control. They were mean and made me show them proof I plan to leave. Jokes on them, I’m actually an Irish citizen who made the mistake of traveling with her American passport instead of her EU passport so she could stay in line for customs with her sexy American boyfriend. The stupid shit you do for a guy to carry your luggage.

The neighborhood doctor has a tiny office attached to the side of his house down the street from Nana’s place. His daughter is also a doctor and they are a badass duo. (Why isn’t there a superhero who writes prescriptions?)

You could maybe fit two American-size fridges in their tiny waiting room. (That’s now how I scale things now.)

An older woman and I were bumping knees and I felt her staring at the side of my face. She’d hurumph and click her tongue in disapproval when I’d hand Abigail a tissue or push hair behind her ear (all motherly like). This is when I realized she thought I was her mother.***

***Abigail’s mother, not this woman’s mother, that would be time travel and I’m not that talented. Just talented enough to get pregnant before my first period. Call me Mary. That was a biblical reference. It was incorrect but it was a reference. (Apparently, I don’t know how to use footnotes.)

She was angry at me for possibly birthing a child as a teenager. I’m obviously not a teenager anymore. This means this woman was holding a grudge against me for something that may or may not have happened 12 years ago. When I was 10.

I actually found myself hiding my left hand because I didn’t have a ring on my finger! I was kicking myself for not wearing more rings. Should’ve put a ring on it. By the time the doctor came to get us I was humming Beyonce.

We sat down in her office and I immediately started sweating. I’m still not used to going to the doctor by myself, let alone another person. I’m so adult I wrote down a list of her symptoms and kept checking it when she looked away.

She had Abigail lay down so she can press all over her lower abdomen and do doctor things. When she sent Abigail to the bathroom for a urine sample I twiddled my thumbs in silence. I attempted doctor small talk.

“So what organs were you pressing?” I said.

“Organs?”

“Yeah, organs! Like what were you feeling her for?”

“Well uh, there’s bladders and tubes and the whole female reproductive system down there. You do know where babies form right?”

“Oh well yeah! I know how babies are made.”

Should’ve stayed silent.

“I’m just going to go check on Abigail.”

I banged on the bathroom door to hurry my sick sister and came back after counting 60 Mississippi’s.

“She’s fine! Should be with us shortly.”

Once she got back I continued to not know the answers necessary to confirm her medical history. I felt like it was exam day but if you fail so does your sister’s appendix. I’m not equipped for that kind of pressure, and neither was my deodorant.  (Insert deodorant commercial that makes me rich and I buy robot doctors I can rent to third world countries for a fee because there’s no such thing as a free lunch!)

She asked who she should call in the morning to further discuss Abigail’s symptoms.

“If your mom is working who would be the best person to call [because you’re useless]?” she said.

“Oh just call Nana,” I said like a freaking three-year-old.

“Nana [you toddler in a woman’s body]? ”

“I mean, Adrienne. I mean her grandmother [jesus, let me off the hook and give me a lollipop].”

She nodded and wrote something down. I like to think she wrote down a reminder to splurge for the nice alcohol tonight because she has to deal with patients’ family members like me.

We left with the possibility Abigail either has a minor virus or appendicitis.

All that work and I didn’t even get a lollipop.

Bathroom Breaks: Don’t Drink the Complimentary Mouthwash

You’re probably thinking, the title of this lead me to believe I was going to be given proper life advice involving minty fresh breath. Or you’re thinking, “I thought I clicked on porn but why are there so many words.” Well, if the latter, I am terribly sorry for the disappointment. When you click on Girls Aren’t Funny it can only go one of two ways.

Anyway back to my Listerine anecdote, I was on a date. One of those good ones where you’re wearing comfy shoes and the kitchen accidentally makes an extra dessert and suddenly there’s twice as much cheesecake on the table.

By the time the check came my bladder had decided six glasses of sweetened ice tea is too much for it to handle, and my pancreas has decided I may have given myself diabetes, and Nick has realized he’s paying for dinner. So I leave.

I glide over to the powdered room in my dainty, feminine, on-a-date like way and realize I have the bathroom all to myself. Now this is a nice restaurant so of course there are couches outside of the stalls because we all know the best place to wait for a table in fancy restaurants is the bathroom (pro tip).

I pick my stall and relieve myself, and when I say relieve I am so relieved that I let out a low guttural sound to express my relief. I had a whole ice tea pitcher waiting to come out.

I open the door to find one of the employees quietly cleaning the sinks. In my attempt to avoid tension I struck up a conversation to show her that I was not ashamed of the noises I made while expressing gratitude for not peeing my pants (Well, I was wearing a dress, does that change things? What was the phrase ladies used when they couldn’t socially wear pants? I guess ladies didn’t talk of such things. This is why I should have gone to cotillion. At least I would’ve learned what fork to use).

I noticed small glass bottles filled with blue liquid.

“I just love when restaurants supply mouthwash. So thoughtful! I mean not all dates like the taste of those caramelized onions after you’re done with them, if you know what I mean?”

She just smiled and continued wiping.

“Well personally I think it’s a great idea. It looks like you’re out of little cups though. I guess I’ll have to do the hand scoop method.”

Again she smiled and cleaned.

“Oh, thicker than I thought.”

Then I proceeded to lick this blue liquid in my hand.

It was soap.

You probably already gathered this.

Good for you.

Do you want a medal?

I want mouthwash.

I left the bathroom and moved to sit down across from Nick.

“You don’t want to know the disgusting thing I just did in that bathroom.”

A confused and slightly intrigued older man stared back at me.

I calmly exited the situation and found Nick at the table next to him.

“We should go.”

DARE but for Catholics

So as I’ve mentioned before, I’m currently in Dublin, Ireland, visiting my family. My sister is attending a Catholic school (as you do in Ireland) and she’s being fast-tracked through the process of becoming as holy as possible.

She asked me to be her sponsor for her confirmation (a ceremony for being “confirmed in the Catholic church”, it’s not as cult-like as it sounds) and I said, “Does that mean I have to give you money or something?” No one exactly explained what my role was other than show up for the ceremony but I didn’t have to write a check so I agreed.

As part of the ceremony being run by her school, they decided to take the opportunity to scare children away from drugs and alcohol. The whole family was invited down to the church to light a candle and listen to kids chant about not touching the good stuff until they’re at least 18.

We, of course, arrive about 20 minutes late in the middle of the sponsor’s oath. A decent amount of the crowd was standing but we didn’t understand whether we were to sit or stand so we bobbed up and down for about a minute in confusion with one hand up like we were boy scouts. I almost put my hand over my heart for the pledge of allegiance.

Once we settled into our seats a priest got up to tell us all a story.

“Now children, have you heard about American Indians? I mean Native Indians, I mean Native American Indians…”

It went on for a while until he settled on the most politically correct term he could muster.

“Well, do you know the happiest place in the world? I’ll give you a hint, it’s in Florida.”

Kids squirmed with excitement, “Disney World!” they said in unison.

“Exactly, well that beautiful theme park is sitting on what used to be the home of thousands of Indian Americans (he still didn’t understand the concept).”

Where was he going with this? Well, he proceeded to tell the story of how Disney basically stepped on the necks of Native Americans and how you can’t assume everything beautiful is without flaw. I think. I think that’s what his metaphor was. I got lost and couldn’t find my way back.

But that was only the first of three Native American metaphors. Apparently, it was a theme for the night.

Then he starts talking about a Native American paddling in a canoe down a river but he’s surrounded with plastic bottles but with one teardrop all the trash disappears. This may have been related to Earth Day but no one questioned him.

The last one he spoke of a Native American boy who climbed a mountain, met a rattlesnake who asked to be carried down the mountain because he was cold. The boy was like, no you’ll bite me and the snake was like, “Nah”. So he carried the snake down the mountain and it bit him. The boy was like, “Ah! You promised!” and the snake was like “Sorry kid, you saw what I was. You knew what you were getting into.”

The snake was a representation of drugs the whole time. Or maybe the boy was on drugs. I forgot the metaphor already.

The priest then listed out a bunch of alcohol brands, like almost all of them. Like, he sounded hella thirsty.

“Yeah, marijuana, speed, cocaine, all beautiful stuff. But not until you’re 18 okay?”

They then all chanted together not to touch this beautiful stuff and lit candles. The wax was dripping all over Abigail but it was in the name of God and meth so it was fine.

“OK, let’s wrap this thing up. If we leave now we can catch the second half of the game.”

Afterward, I needed a drink.

Vulnerability is sexy: GAF’s first press coverage

Can I be honest? I’m freaking out a little and Oprah told me vulnerability is sexy.

Ok maybe she didn’t say that verbatim but you can’t quote Oprah directly or your soul will explode from too much goodness. Can you tell I’m freaking out?

I feel like a giraffe birthed from its mother. I fell five feet just to look up and stare into the heavens/vagina. And I’m like, what the hell just happened? And now everyone expects me to just stand up and walk around like everything is ok. It’s not ok! I was just metaphorically birthed out of a very tall vagina!

Nick said my metaphor is hardly helpful and this is why San Diego Zoo won’t hire me.

I started this blog a couple of weeks ago and I don’t know what I’m doing. I feel like an old person when it comes to social media and all my friends are graduating soon and getting real adult jobs. I was clicking through a job search earlier and I had the option to apply to a company called, “Crazy Racoons” or “Dog & Rooster”. What is with all of these animal omens?

Being 22 is scary. Where’s my romantic comedy soundtrack that is lighthearted and makes the movie funny and not tragic?

My sister, Abigail, saved the day of course. She had to choose a famous person to write a biography on and she chose me. I was surprised mostly because the only thing I’m famous for is the one time I triple-dog-dared my crush in sixth grade to lick an ant pile. It’s never in your interest for me to be hot for you.

Straight from the interview packet itself:

  • What was their first job? Her first job was at the local grocery store where she was sexually harassed incessantly. It was like the ‘what not to do’ version of an HR video.
  • Did they marry? Did they have any children? Who are you, my mother?
  • Where did they live? All over the freaking place, it was annoying and she never got her mail. But she was fine. Kinda. Except for that time when she may have lived in an illegal shack in someone’s backyard. Lots of cockroaches. Lots.
  • What was life in their hometown or country like at this time? Pre or post Trump?
  • How did they feel about life in their hometown or country? Pre or post Trump?
  • How did they first become interested/involved in this area? Well, she owns a vagina. So… yeah. And she’s funny. Melanie is. Not the vagina. Well, maybe the vagina too. Those things get into trouble.
  • When did they first become well known? I’ll keep you updated.
  • What were the most difficult times? This interview.
  • Life at the moment (if this person is still alive) Yes, she’s alive and kicking.
  • Where is the person living now? Currently, couch surfing but in a glamorous way, not in a homeless way. There’s a difference.
  • How old are they now? 22, but who’s counting? Taylor Swift. She’s always watching.
  • What is their life like now? A hot mess. But more hot than messy.
  • Later life (if the person is no longer living) I’m still alive. You’re scaring me.

Anyway, I’m proud to say Girls Aren’t Funny has had its first press coverage (in a sixth-grade classroom) (I’m expecting a call from her teacher):

Melanie had an idea in college and was hoping someone else would do it. No one did. So she stepped up and created a safe place on the internet for women. But sexier. So, Girls Aren’t Funny, a submission-based blog for humor essays, was born.

Melanie said, “I noticed from a young age only the boys got to be the class clowns. There was this unspoken agreement that girls aren't funny,and this blog is here to combat this”.

Melanie has been traveling around Europe with her boyfriend Nick, and writing about those… embarrassing moments such as when she started speaking broken Spanish to a Polish woman. In my opinion, these relatable stories (kind of), make her unique. So, right now she’s collaborating with other women who want to submit their own work. 

Here are a few things I think about Melanie. In my opinion
Melanie is so full of energy and truly takes action. Nick said, “I think Melanie is very brave for starting this blog.She’s very passionate about her work and puts a lot of effort into
it”.

If you believe girls aren’t funny Melanie must be a guy.

-Abigail Whyte

Ode to my vagina

Let’s talk periods, baby. Let’s talk about you and me. Let’s talk about all the way we bleed together, yeah, baby. Let’s talk about, periods.

Wow, I totally sound like that sex ed video we all had to watch in 5th grade where the boys and girls were put in separate rooms and the boys emerged holding deodorant sticks and the girls emerged with the realization that they’re literally baby making machines.

Did your video have a sleepover where the mom made pancakes in the shape of the female reproduction system (like the whole thing, the whole thing)? I think she may have been their school nurse and/or pancake competition winner because that thing was detailed and looked delicious.

Anyways, well while I’ve been traveling for the last few months I had to take on a new approach to my special time of the month. Drinking alone. Oh and my period.

Before I left on my trip I was having dinner with some friends and someone brought up her Diva Cup (was I accidentally in a commercial?). Another friend agreed she loved hers and we all leaned in to hear their magical experience with a menstrual cup.

First of all, I had a weird problem with the name. Diva Cup. I absolutely hated that feminine products were constantly trying to come off as princess and sparkle themed. I wanted a tampon that had flames printed on the side of the packaging. Fire crotch! Yeah!!!

Enough of that.

Anyways, as my friends discussed the benefits of the Diva Cup I was brought back to the time I first used a tampon. I must’ve been around 12 or 13 and my friend really wanted to go swimming. Goddammit, why do kids always want to go swimming?

I was on my period at the time and didn’t want to see my pad try to absorb anything else. She basically told me to grow up and shove in a tampon. So after that pep talk, I snuck into my mom’s bathroom and stole a tampon. I looked at it, looked at my crotch, looked at it again and gulped. Audibly.

Five minutes later my mom was drawn to her room because she heard her daughter running (more like waddling) around screaming, “I’m never having sex, I’m never having sex!”. (Naturally, I assumed anything shoved up there would be painful and awkward. That’s what I call effective abstinence-based education.) Once she calmed me down I went back into the bathroom to remove the tampon that was half hanging out of me.

Like a bomb squad, both my friend and mom talked me through the process from the other side of the door. I emerged triumphant with the string dangling between my legs like a freaking pull-string doll.

Did we go to the pool? God, no, my friend moved on to apple slices and peanut butter. Did I finally enter into the world of womanhood? Hell yes.

Now, I was looking down the barrel of a very long trip, traveling to countries I didn’t speak the language of. I was still embarrassed to buy tampons at the local pharmacy. I make strange small talk and the cashier frowns at me with concern.

But I decided to do it. I’d buy a Diva Cup, it just made sense. However, I did pack an entire box of tampons as a back up in case I chickened out. Well, I basically used the whole box the first period so my back was against the wall. Also, it cleared a bunch of space in my carry-on.

I took the cup into the bathroom and stared at it for a while. I looked at it, looked at my crotch, and looked at it again. Gulp.

But I did it! I squeezed that sucker in there and it worked like a charm. Plus, I didn’t have to change it for like 12 hours (I really pushed it to its limits) which meant I only had to change it once in the morning and once before I went to bed.

I won’t lie, the first time I removed it, it was like a horror scene. But I’ve gotten the hang out of it since. Now I never have to be that girl who’s wandering around asking people if they have a tampon with desperation in her eyes (that was me, that was always me).

It felt like a hefty investment but it will save me so much in the long run. This isn’t an ad, but seriously give it a try. Then please send in a story of how it went down for you because I bet it was hilarious. Please include the curse words that rang out from the bathroom.

Or don’t send in a story, but research wonderful organizations like Femme International and their Feminine Health Management Program. Or donate because everyone loves money and you get to feel like a good person and everyone will hate you at the dinner party because you’re the cool kid who supports women.

We’re so Catholic, you already know

First off, did anyone sing the title of this post to the tune of Fancy by Iggy Azalea? Because go back and do that.

It was the morning of my sister’s first communion. (I’m about to give all non-Catholics a crash course in this religious rite of passage.)

It’s basically an opportunity for seven-year-olds to get crazy rich. Imagine bar-mitzvahs but for Catholics. (I may be offending a lot of people.)

Basically, you eat a wafer that is supposed to symbolize the body of Christ and drink wine, that symbolizes the blood of Christ. It’s basically symbolic cannibalism. But not as creepy as that. I used to think of it as eating a wafer-size Jesus who takes care of your insides. (That’s also why I wasn’t selected for anyone’s team during Bible Bingo).

It’s a big deal in a Catholic family, especially an Irish Catholic family, and I was excited to be in Dublin to see my sister do her thang. It was a small affair because, like most families with their last kid, they don’t try as hard. So she missed her first communion with the other seven-year-olds but five years later she’s going to a Catholic school in Ireland and was put on the fast track through confession and communion.

The local priest agreed to squeeze her in before her Catholic school had their confirmation. (Wow, there is so much backstory here. Maybe this post is only for Catholics. I’ve decided to be uninclusive in the name of God.)

Look how the holy spirit blew through her hair. The hair I spent a decent amount of time styling.

FINALLY, we’re at the actual story of the day. I curled Abigail’s hair all pretty and she had on a lovely white dress and we realized this 12-year-old doesn’t own a strapless bra. (Neither do I, and I’m a grown woman).

I encouraged the no-bra, possible band-aid, technique but she wasn’t having it in front of a priest. So when my mom left the room we dug through her drawer to find an old bra we could cut the straps off.

We were running late to mass and everyone yelled for us to come down. Without scissors in sight, we used an Exacto-knife (she’s into crafts) to shred through. We emerged triumphant. Screw you, Victoria [Secret].

There was too many of us going to the church so we separated into two cars. My brother, my aunt, Nick and I took off ahead of them and arrived at the nearest church within minutes. Since we arrived early we used our time luxuriously. We chatted in the car, we strolled across the lawn, we even took our time finding a seat.

No one else was there.

Mass was starting soon and then it hit us all at once. We gathered our jackets and pride and ran past a confused usher.

“Where are you going?” he shouted at our retreating backs.

“We’re at the wrong church!”

Churchgoers watched us trip over ourselves back to the car.

I yelled back at them,”Sorry, we realized we’re Jewish!”

On the way to the right church, we listened to a radio host discuss a dating site for married people to cheat on their spouses. (Finally something relatable, right?  Farmers Only has had its time in the sun.)

“You know, Dr. Seus cheated on his terminally ill wife,” my brother said as we sprinted from the parking spot.

“Stephen Hawking cheated on his wife too,” Nick said as we approached the doors.

“And he was the terminal one, the bastard,” I said as we walked directly into the front of the church.

Silence. The congregation stared at us.

I crossed myself and joined my family in the front row. I thought I would be slowly forgotten once the service started. I soon realized my family was in the front row because it was Abigail’s special day.

“Abigail’s sister is joining us today all the way from the states,” I waved meekly.

Then it was the big moment. We lined up behind Abigail as she swallowed a little bit of Jesus and we each took our own turn. When it was just the priest and I he said, “You’re definitely sisters”.

What was the emphasis for? Did Abigail also call a brilliant recently deceased physicist an illegitimate child in front of the whole congregation?

I had never spoken directly with a priest before, except through the small holes of a confession booth (another Catholic thing) and I panicked.

“I did her hair,” I stuttered and ran back to my pew like a good Catholic.

Thank god (no pun intended) the rest of the day all of the attention was on Abigail. People from the church flocked to her to wish her well.

Two little old ladies looked at her fondly and said, “You’ll never be as holy as you are on the day of your first communion.”

Well, isn’t that nice. I don’t know, is it?