My Period Mistake

Picture it:

A 31 year old woman is sitting at her desk at work. She's menstruating. Second day.

She stands and feels a little damp. No, a lot damp. Before 11am, there's no way she could've soaked through a pad already. She makes a quick run to the bathroom to find a pad barely soaked. However, the front of her panties and jeans are soaked.

Pain, Pain, Go Away

I've had a uterus my entire life. We've had a very amicable relationship. At about 3 pm on Monday afternoon something upset her. She slowly grew enraged. But I was weathering her storm. At about 8 o'clock while I was trying to wind down she was just getting started. I text a friend about these newfangled pains I was experiencing. I wasn't doubled over but was definitely uncomfortable. They say it helps to talk about your problems; you gain insight on how to manage them, solve them or perhaps they'll even go away. I don't remember when I dozed off but at about 11pm I was woken by CM Punk screaming into the pipe bomb and my uterus screaming louder. What the what? I made myself a little more comfortable but was determined to sleep this off like I could sleep off other pains.


Shame on me for not having any pain meds at home but I'm rarely in pain. Moaning and whimpering, I stumbled around my bedroom at about 2:30ish in the morning. Pain blurred my vision. Pain made me sweat. Not doubled over in pain, uh, Abigail? Merely uncomfortable, Missy? I slumped over the bathroom sink for a while when a wave of nausea hit me. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's nausea and vomiting. That was the push I needed. I swallowed hard and had a heart-to-heart with the grimace in the mirror. I needed meds. But I couldn't walk straight due to the pain (my vagina was now singing backup). Never in my life had I experienced pain like this. Who are these women who deal with this every month?

Period. The Beginning.

There must be someway to celebrate the final menstrual cycle of my 20's. Some sort of ceremony or ritual involving meditation, the moon, belly dancing, donning a special menstrual garment and then burning or burying the blood-soaked shroud.

I believe there are phases in life. Entering your 30's is the beginning of a new phase. As a woman, there is no way to know which period will be your last. You're aware that you're going through menopause but only after the periods stop do you realize that last one was the last one.

Nothing Says "Good Morning" Like A Speculum

I had an early morning appointment with my OB/GYN. I jumped the gun earlier in the year and scheduled a Pap in April (I was actually not due for my annual until August). When they realized it, they rescheduled my appointment without charging me for the visit. That was a great plus considering I'm uninsured. 


The nurse checked me in, asked some basic questions - when was my last period, did I have sex within the last 24 hours, did I insert anything into my vagina, any unusual bleeding or discharge, would I like an HIV test - weighed me and took my blood pressure. Weighed the same, blood pressure was low (I was surprised considering my mad dash to get to my 8:30am appointment on time and that fact that I was still on a high Mickey alert this morning). 


I choose to believe my doctor is as happy to see me as I was to see her. She also asked some routine questions and inquired if there were any changes to my medical history. No, I don't take supplements or am on any medication, I drink more alcoholic beverages than last year since I've developed a relationship with white wine and have a "Cheers" in my life, I do a self-breast exam semi-regularly, I'm not still with the same partner and yes, I have engaged in some... *whispers* risky behavior. She told me about the Family Planning Benefit Program (FPBP) that I'd most likely be eligible for and get free visits and she asked if I was still working in Physical Therapy. If you don't have the kind of relationship with your doctor where you can tell them who you're sleeping with, what objects you're inserting where, if things smell different, you may want to consider a new doctor or change your approach to your doctor. They've seen and heard "it all".

Try These On For Size

I didn't leave home this morning intending to buy jeans, but the pair I was wearing (and all the pairs I have at home) are fading fast. I've worn through the inner thighs and they've been patched up and now I'm going through the patches.  My inner thigh flesh oozes out like sausage escaping its casing in other pairs. My thighs rub together and I walk A LOT. They really have started making jeans differently. Something with the inner seams... but whatever. Point is, I ended up at Express. I know my size and the cut and don't have to try anything on.


Not today! Their Eva (which used to be Curvy fit, Regular Rise) are still Curvy fit, but now run in Mid-Rise. I stay away from low rise, because they're too low to cover my rise. I took down my 10 Short off the shelf and they did look a little smaller than I remembered. Luckily I decided to try them on. I had "my" camera with me because I was taking photos in Central Park earlier. I set the timer and got to changing and trying. Trying. One pair, the CURVY couldn't even go all the way up. 


The Stella fit... like a pair of leggings. No thanks. The floor attendant approached me and asked if everything fit OK. I explained to him my "dilemma". I showed him that the pair of jeans I was wearing were Express jeans and didn't fit at all like the ones I tried on and said they must've changed the cut of the jean slightly. After he listened to me, we decided I should try size 12. He called back to the stockroom and no they didn't have 12 Short. I figured I could just get my friend to hem them for me.

Kitty Makes Me A Girl

I was exchanging texts with my friend, StarPower, about Monday Night Raw before the conversation shifted to UrbanErotika™, an event I co-produced and StarPower performed in about 2 weeks ago. He told me that I looked really nice that night. I had received a few compliments the night of the show and accepted his gracefully as well. I told him I should “dress like a girl more often”, or maybe I just needed reasons to.

The next morning, I had an “aha” moment of sorts and decided to wear a skirt. I was making a few stops that day and I figured I would be comfortable enough. I clearly made the right decision when I walked into the APART showroom for Kitty Bradshaw’s 2 Year Blogiversary event. Normally, I’d rock a pair of jeans & a simple top or t-shirt. I didn’t stray from the t-shirt but wore it with my “dangerous curves ahead” skirt. I even wore slight heels and I even threw on some beads. All the attendees that night proved that writers and bloggers aren’t homely creatures with no fashion sense.

Topless Trouble

If you've been reading/following (although I don't actually chronicle my life in any particular order on this blog) you may remember that I was on my way to get some sun during these past few summery days (it was only yesterday's post, but I take into account your busy lives) and I also love Tuesdays. I decided to keep my quest for sun local today and went to Prospect Park.

I am a borderline sun junkie. I choose to walk on the sunny side of the street. Very few of my summer clothes have sleeves. I like to feel the sun on my skin. I woke up this morning with the intent that I would go to the park, read my magazines and sit in the sun. I had to even up the tan I got this weekend from walking around. The skin that lay under my straps betrayed me once I took off my clothes. And I'm beginning to believe I look better out of my clothes than in them. Maybe I just need a new wardrobe. I also had to get rid of the reverse raccoon eyes I got this weekend from my sunglasses.

Fluid Retention

Sprawled out on the bench, legs cocked up on the handrails and spread eagle, without sufficient underwear, a bunch of grapes barely covering the crotch, incoherent rambling. 

That was the sight on my subway ride home at about 1:30 in the morning. A drunk woman. There's nothing more unattractive. Yes, I'm going to display a double-standard. I don't like drunk men either and especially not drunk drivers(!), but you know what, for the walking drunk, I'm more accepting of men making fools of themselves. Belligerent drunk men can walk into oncoming traffic if they so choose. But for a woman to get to that point... Where is your couth? Your grace? I'm not anti-alcohol. I love me some vodka and tequila, Baileys, white wine, champagne etc. Having a few drinks with friends is great. I'm a social drinker. After my first sip, I become intoxicated - not only from the alcohol but from the company. People intoxicate me (some more than others...you know who you are) 

The one time I threw up due to drinking was very surprising and uncomfortable. In between heaves into the toilet, I pleaded, "Why is this happening to me?" I wasn't even drunk! I've been around women whose main objective when they go out is to get wasted and have that moment on the toilet! Why would you do that to yourself? Vomiting is so uncomfortable! And I'll never comprehend drinking so much that I have no memory of the night before. Drinking is a veil for many a lonely soul. What's so bad in your life that you're trying so hard to forget? Will the STDs or unplanned pregnancy be worth it? Do you get drunk because it'll help you open up and talk to people or enjoy the party more? Maybe you're just a shy person. Constantly getting drunk aint gonna help you. Then the feigned shame - oh my god, I can't believe I did that! Yeah, bitch, but you're gonna do it again next weekend. So shut up.

She Really Is The First

I don't give a flying beep about royalty or the Royal Family in England. I think the whole concept is ridiculous and antiquated. But the fact that Queen Elizabeth, someone so steeped in tradition and stoic would "break ranks" and hug Michelle Obama because she liked her so much speaks volumes.

I haven't met the First Lady yet, but just from the images in magazines or on television, her interviews and such, she does come across as very genuine and likable. Her new social status has thrust her under the microscope of the media and so far they haven't anything unlikable. She's a real woman. She came from humble beginnings, and although "being smart wasn't necessarily cool" she didn't hide her intelligence, she strove to feed it and benefit from it. 

Michelle Obama has made it clear how important it is for her to be the First Mother. Her daughters will undoubtedly grow into fine women, unless they decide to go astray. Her physical presence has also garnered attention, her height and hips included. Her outfits are always stylish, classy and professional. Her clothes show off her shape without being overly sexual. And although there is a poise to Michelle Obama, I still notice a bit of humility and shyness. I can just imagine what it's like to realize and accept that your life will never be the same again as far as privacy. The influence she'll have on women from now on is immeasurable. What other firsts will be get from Michelle Obama? I can't wait.

Too Much To Handle

Maybe I'm just a pervert, but when I meet someone new my mind runs on sex at some point. Even when I'm not sexually attracted to them, I'll wonder what their sex life is like or how they even manage to have sex. The former and latter refers to fat people. I'm talking waddling-not-walking fat and things-getting-lost-on-your-body fat. Do they have sex? With that extra weight, what are the mechanics like? I couldn't be with a person where we have to lift parts of their body out of the way (an episode of Inside Brookhaven Obesity Clinic had a shower scene that amazed me). Even someone who isn't morbidly obese, are their sexual positions limited? How easy is it for them to masturbate?

Why Try Bi

My personal belief is homosexuality is not a choice. It's how you're born; you either are or you aren't. I love the differences in people and learning about them and what makes them tick, how they think. It's also accepted that women's sexuality is fluid. More women are prone to be bisexual (I'm referring to the sexual not the emotional in this piece) but it's not every woman. It's not me. My number is not 3 on the Kinsey scale. If one more man asks me to be with a woman for their enjoyment or is just amazed at the fact that I've never been with another woman, I will scream. I'm not hardwired that way. I don't have the desire to please a woman sexually. When I watch girl-on-girl porn (which I enjoy), I become aroused and then either want to masturbate or be with a man. Lesbians obviously sense this in me because they don't hit on me. I don't even think they notice me. And it makes sense, they want to be with a woman who likes women. I can look at another woman, be nude with her, find her sexy and attractive and beautiful yet the urge to kiss her and touch her just isn't there.

What annoys me even more is that it's expected of me, or women, in general. There are men who won't even let a woman near their assholes because they think "it's gay", but I'm supposed to lick another woman's pussy? If I kept asking you, "you never sucked your boy's dick?" or "you never let him jerk you off?" you'd be pissed off. If I tried to arrange something, invited you guys over, cooked some food and figured we could pop a bottle and I'd get to referee a swordfight, you'd want to punch me in my face. I'm not going to get drunk and make out with a girl. The guys who have pleaded for a threesome expect me and the other woman to be with each other (I won't get into the fact that not too many men can handle and actually satisfy two women). When I'm in a threesome with two men, I don't expect the guys to do anything with one another. So why is it expected of me? I'm a very sexual woman and I think men are drawn to that; they can smell it. My sexual openness, erotic creativity, experimental ways and past experiences would have one assume I've been with a woman, but if I've told you it's never happened and I have no desire to force the issue, stop asking. Common sense would tell you that I could easily have been with a woman if I was so inclined considering said previous experiences. So to all those fellas who still don't get it, go give one of your boys an open mouth kiss then come talk to me.

Stay Home, Raggedy Andy

It’s been a year since my last truly good date. What made it such a good date was he was a gentleman and treated me like a lady. He took into account what I liked (food), what he liked (alcohol and live music), my willingness to try new things and my appreciation for the finer things in life. Since then, I’ve been out with other dudes, but not sure I’d call them "dates" in the true sense of the word.

Friday night, I was in Williamsburg at Sea. I swear I was in the Meatpacking district – the patrons, the décor, the menu, the waiters. The restaurant was packed and there was definite out-to-have-a-good-time vibes all around. As I was done with dinner, I was angered beyond belief. A couple was waiting for our table. I didn’t even notice the woman first but I noticed the guy in a workout vest over a t-shirt with track pants and sneakers. They shouldn’t have let him in the door of the establishment, but I’m not management. Then I see the woman he’s with – wearing a dress, hair and makeup all done up looking very classy. She was dressed for a date on a Friday night. He looked like he just came from the gym or something.

Fellas (this goes to my friends, brothers, future dates), don’t ever show up dressed like that, ever. And if it’s a Friday or Saturday night (an obvious date night) you should know better. I consider it a slap in the face and lack of pride in yourself. I went on a blind date (hold your comments please), on a Wednesday night and this dude did the same t-shirt and track pants look. He was coming from home! And told me he didn’t work that day! Then had to nerve to try to hold my hand as we headed to the restaurant! On top of that, he was short. I’m 5’2”. He was shorter than me.

My experience that was similar to that poor woman at Sea took place in the summer 2007 (yes, it’s still fresh in my memory). Saturday night, reservations were made at Rosa Mexicano in Union Square. I don’t wear dresses, but to a wedding, graduation etc, I’ll suck it up and show off my legs. That night, I wore my green and black polka dot camisole top. No bra. My perky girls were doing their thing. Black boot cut jeans and sandals. At the time, I had my two-strand twist extensions, so my hair was looking right, and I had on great earrings. I didn’t go into this date expecting a love connection or hookup. It was an introduction to New York City for this guy and he was eager to go out on Saturday in the “cool part of town”. We met at the restaurant. He was at the bar. Every woman gives a man the once over in a split second when they meet. I had seen him two times before this. We hung out, had dinner after work at a more casual restaurant, walked through SoHo, across the Brooklyn Bridge (I was in full tour guide mode) then had ice cream at Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory. He was always dressed appropriately; after all, he was in his work clothes. Lawd Jesus mi shoulda deh deh wen im put on im cloze. He wore a grey long sleeve t-shirt, jeans and white sneakers (definitely older than a year).

I’m gonna stop there. What more is there to say? All I’m saying is please dress the part. You don’t have to be a GQ man or have your clothes fitted at Brooks Brothers for a date but please put in some effort or someone else may be blogging about your raggedy ass.

By The Skin Of Your Teeth

Those 1-800-DENTIST commercials are so annoying. I can’t stand that woman who rides in the elevator and just antagonizes that man. The next commercial they air should show her teeth falling out of her mouth. The reason I bring this up is because I watched an episode of Spin City. Remember that show? They don’t make shows like that anymore; intelligent, well written, with a great cast and the characters they portray. Anyway, in my fatigue haze on Saturday morning, I watched the episode where Charlie tried to convince the Mayor to go to the dentist to get his chipped tooth fixed. But his tooth wasn’t chipped before he went to his 90-year old dentist, who later dropped dead during the visit. The ticking clock was the Mayor was scheduled to participate in a new tourism campaign for New York – Smile New York – and would have to smile proudly at the press conference. Charlie saves the day by bringing in a hockey team to smile alongside the Mayor, with their missing teeth and all to showcase smiles, like New York City, with its imperfections.


I think teeth are very important. It’s unfortunate that many people simply can’t afford dental care. I hope affordable dental insurance falls under the health care reform we’re after. By 2010, more cities in the US will have fluoridated water. On the level of vanity, do a person’s teeth make or break it for you? What imperfections do you find kinda cute? What are you willing to tolerate? Just like personality quirks slight dental imperfections make each of us individual. That one tooth that grew in front of all the others an overbite or the more famous gap can be very endearing and character defining. I notice teeth when I meet a person. If they’re amazingly straight and white, I stare. If they’re all pointing in different directions, an unusual color or not all there, I stare. You know you’ve met that person who could kill you with their smile…

6639

Yesterday I met a friend for lunch in Tribeca. I traveled comfortably on the train with a light midday crowd. I got cozy in my seat and went about watching the people and reading the ads. I was amused by an ad for FlatRate movers – a checklist for moving to the West Village. Then I saw a Dr. Zizmor ad and I said to myself I would try to get a free consultation (it is a recession and I’d use my writer credentials) and I’d like to see if Dr. Zizmor is a real person. 


This afternoon, March 13th, I was on my way to a TD Bank branch to cash in some change. It took me a while to realize it because I was sitting in a different spot but I was in the same car I was in yesterday! I saw the Dr. Zizmor ad again. Then I saw the FlatRate ad and ads for 1-800-IMMIGRATION and 1-800-INNOCENT from the day before. Looking down the car, I saw I was in car number 6636. That couldn’t be, I thought. Yesterday, after a quick walk through Tribeca to walk off lunch, I rode in the car 6639. Groups of subway cars are usually sequential. Was it possible that this was the same exact train I rode yesterday, twice? Now that group of cars was in the front, headed uptown, and in the back, headed downtown. When I got off the train, sure enough, three cars away was car number 6639.

The reason I remember I rode home yesterday in car 6639 is because I had to read those numbers to the conductor through the emergency intercom when this young woman collapsed while having a seizure. It felt good that I knew what to do, while other passengers were loud and panicky or scared silent. Her eyes never closed during the seizure. I looked into her eyes, waiting for the seizure to end. Her face and expression are burned into my brain. One minute she was “looking” at me and totally out of it, next minute, she saw me. A faint smile came over her face. I started talking to her, she insisted she was ok, her pale lips and very slow, heavy blinks said otherwise. She knew what day of the week it was, where she was going before the seizure and told me that had never happened to her before. Another guy kept talking to her and cracking jokes, probably out of his own nervousness or his inner Dr. Hibbert. And she kept looking at me. Maybe it was the bright red jacket, the big afro puff, or my insistence that she go to the hospital. I think the questions I asked her made her realize I knew what I was talking about. Just like that, the train pulled into the next station and she was whisked away.


My last three consecutive rides on the IRT were on the same train, twice in the same car. I’m not a gambling woman (with money) but I knew even before I told my mother the story, she’d tell me to play those numbers. When I got back to my neighborhood from the bank, I stopped to buy some lotto. If it aint scratch-off or Mega Millions quick pick, I’m clueless. I do know there’s a game where you pick four numbers so that’s the one I bought. Then the vendor starts asking me if I want 50-50 box or straight or something else I don’t remember – like he was an auctioneer. I told him I didn’t know what he meant and that I wanted two dollars. And as I’m writing this, I just realized the numbers – 9, 6, and 3 on 3-12-09 and 3-13-09. Freaky. Friday the 13th.

Coming To Break You Off

Apparently, outside of dolphins, humans are the only species to have sex for recreation; we don’t have a set “mating season”. That probably would eliminate a lot of problems, but I digress...


So we have sex for fun; it feels good, relieves stress and gives skin that unbelievable glow, forms bonds, starts wars, and usually ends in orgasm(s). And we all know there are different types of O’s – vaginal, clitoral, anal, nipple. Some cause creamy ooze (male and female), others, waterfalls or high-powered hoses (Cytherea). Some anal orgasms are so intense the anus prolapses. That can be a scary sight and for some engaging in sexual congress, that’s actually the goal. Usually this all starts with kissing. The lips are very sensitive because they have a lot of nerve endings. During a kiss, all your senses are being used; you see your partner, taste them, smell them, touch them, hear them. Testosterone is coursing through the veins increasing sexual desires. After you’ve suckled the neck, you move to the breasts. There is direct nerve connection between the nipple and clit/penis, so that explains why getting your nipples played with or sucked “just right” can send a charge down your belly and cause a tingle in your pants. Nipple orgasms are possible through sex or breast-feeding and men are also capable of reaching nipple orgasms.


Now the road to that orgasm is one that is different for everyone. Your upbringing, past traumas or delights and physiological hardwiring all determine what gets you off. There’s the guy who can only get off when his partner gives him head with a finger in the back door. Men are visual, but remember the dude who had to have the lights on every time? The next guy you dated had to have his nipples twiddled and diddled. One of the rules is, if you wanna keep your man, better open your mouth. But your partner, you’ll never get oral sex from, ever. And let’s not forget the guy who only gets and maintains an erection if you kiss him. Don’t try to suck him, don’t try to give him a handjob, cause it aint gonna happen. I’m sure there are women out there who like to be bitten and choked or stuffed elbow deep, but when is weird too weird? What is a fetish? Are fetishes only “physical” in nature? What is your fetish?

Chivalry Don't Like Bitches

Chivalry is not dead. Chivalry just doesn’t like bitches. How can a woman expect a man to be polite and gracious when all she does is roll her eyes, believes she’s undeserving or acts like the words “thank” and “you” aren’t part of her vocabulary? Nice girls get doors held open for them, don’t pay for dinner or drinks, get door-to-door chauffeur service and receive genuine compliments. I’m all about equality of the sexes but I’m a woman and I like when a man takes charge and takes care of me. That does not mean I want him to control me or possess me (I wouldn’t put up with that anyway and that’s not love) but when their natural paternal instincts kick in, I relish it. Just that protective way they put their arm on the back of your chair (after they’ve pushed it in for you) or are quick to stand up for you and kick someone’s ass when they find out someone made you cry or pissed you off (Joey Tribbiani from Friends).


I hope my first born is a boy. That way if I get a daughter second, she’ll have a big brother. I know full well most men want to protect and provide for a woman; a deserving woman. Although I’m liberal, I do fall into the traditional female gender role around a traditionally masculine man – he’s good with his hands (or at least tries or doesn’t balk at the idea of hiring someone to do the job for him), handles all the pest infestations that send me running and screeching like a girl, has hobbies I’ll never understand yet appreciate, watches me like a piece of meat when I’m walking around the house, presses his body behind mine while I’m in the kitchen….pretty much 24/7 foreplay is what I mean. And I will fill his belly with some fine food with a smile.

The Journey Home

One of my favorite songs of all time is U2’s “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For”. I love the sound but I also identify with the message. Not in a religious sense though. But I’m still looking… I want to know about you and I. I love to listen. When someone speaks to me, I’m listening to their words and how they say those words. I love face-to-face conversations so I can hear what you tell me with your eyes, raise of your eyebrow, flare of your nostril, flick of your tongue. I have been known to play Devil’s Advocate quite a bit with my questions and I like to think it’s because of my ability to see all sides of a situation. It also encourages someone to tap into their passion when they have to defend their views, or it’s eye-opening and can stop someone in their tracks.


As I get older, the words I choose to describe myself have become more paradoxical, as have I; I am fluid, stubborn, opinionated, open-minded, empathetic, objective. There are times that I have to just disappear for a while to totally process the stimulus bombarding me on a daily basis. I am a sponge. I soak up knowledge but I also absorb others’ essences; their mannerisms, their mood, their energy. I was born a woman. I have the ability to accept and take people in and the ability to birth creations. I am intuitively aware when someone just needs the presence of another human being. That’s why I love to hug and touch and kiss. It’s unfortunate that many people aren’t comfortable in the presence of other people. Touch scares them or repulses them. I would die, literally, spiritually, if I couldn’t connect with other people.


So what’s my purpose? What am I looking for? Not sure. But I think it has something to do with healing, putting myself and my brothers and sisters at ease with themselves and their emotions and to spread positive vibes. Something like that. Like I said, I didn’t find it yet. I had a great talk with a friend last night who said he’s “going home.” What he meant was he’s going home to Africa. He’s very Pro-Black and knows that Africa is where he belongs. As I watched him say that, there was an unbelievable sense of peace that came over him.

I’m going home


We’re all trying to go home. To know someone who knows what their purpose on this earth is and to seek it is amazing and beautiful. He’s beautiful. I can’t help but love that.