Boy. Boy. Boy. Very tall boy.

Talking to Carter yesterday, I realized that men have it easy. 
Now, before you get all testy and assume that I’m going to rant about my ovaries, let me assure you. 
I am.
“But we work just as hard as women”
“But I’m a stay at home dad.”
“But I have a prostate.”
Shut up.
Install a uterus and a set of ovaries, live with them for a year, then call me.
How did this come about? Carter and I were talking about something and it somehow swung into a conversation about puberty. (You know, blah blah blah blah my changing body blah blah. Doesn’t that happen to you all the time? No? Well. *cough* Moving on.)
ME: What’s puberty like for guys?
CARTER: I dunno. You start to grow hair in weird places and start to smell funky. Oh, and your voice does this weird up and down cracking thing for a while.
ME: That’s it?
CARTER: Pretty much. I never really got what all the fuss was about. Is it not like that for girls?
(Note: At this moment, I was trying to simultaneously pick my jaw up off the floor while NOT strangling him. You ladies know where I’m going with this one.)
ME: NO!!!!
CARTER: Really? Is it bad?
ME: Is it bad? Is it bad?! Let me paint you a picture. Your horomones make you a raging psychopath. This means that you hate your parents. You hate your siblings. You hate your classmates. You generally barely tolerate even your friends, unless they are also bitching with you. You hate YOURSELF. You cry all the time. One minute you’re laughing, watching Zenon: Girl of the 21st Century and cracking up, the next, your sobbing hysterically because Protozoa isn’t a real person and you know that and no one could ever love you like him. Which brings you to the thought: “What if I never get a boyfriend? Or boobs? OMG, what if I never get boobs?!?!?!
ME: And then you GET your boobs, FINALLY, and you hate them! They’re always in the way, they’re awkward, they don’t lay flat and always have this Madonna-esque point quality to them until they “cone” properly. Believe it or not, that’s the technical term. Coning. Blech. And then, like that isn’t enough proof that the universe is dicking with you, you get your first period. And are convinced that you’re bleeding to death. Which makes you hate everyone even more than you already did and makes you not only hate yourself, but also find yourself completely repulsive.
ME: So essentially, if you’re not self-loathing, you’re loathing everyone else. And youre grossed out. And you’re crying. And you know that God is playing a horrible trick on you because just as you begin to find boys attractive, you wake up more unattractive and zit-infested than you’ve ever been in your life. And youre terrified of bleeding to death. And you’re afraid your boobs will never come in/never stop coming in. Oh, and if there are girls in your class that aren’t repulsive and have perfect boob and perfect skin and perfect smiles and no braces, you hate them. F***ing hate them. 
CARTER: *cough*
ME: Oh. And on top of all of that you’re growing hair in weird places and starting to smell funky.
CARTER: Please don’t take this the wrong way, but this is my new prayer for our future, hypothetical, non-existent children. “Boy. Boy. Boy. Very tall boy.”
Calm down, kids. We’re nowhere near Carter needing to lay metaphorical bones on the metaphorical alabaster stone to pray to the heathen gods to bless him that his first child be a masculine child. (And every subsequent child after that.) But he doesn’t think it hurts to take preventative measures and start the voodoo early. I challenged him though. I wasn’t that bad.
….Okay. Fine. You caught me.
I, being a spirited   feisty  pain in the ass, can only imagine what an douche-canoe I was during puberty.  Probably a big one. Seeing as my hormones drove me to a short, albeit intense goth phase, my puberty was hellaciously fun for all. (Okay, okay. Maybe it was my parents that drove me to gothdom. Or my first boyfriend. I dunno. We were madly in love. ….for a month.) As a matter of fact, I am nominating my parents for sainthood. And maybe the presidency.
Ok. Boy. Boy. Boy. Very tall boy.
Anyways, today marks the first day of my attempt to complete the NaBloPoMo for the month of October. This means that I must write a post every day for the month of October. I, stupidly, signed up for this in the waiting room at the beginning of my dad’s first surgery, when everything was coming up roses and we hadn’t found out that anything had gone awry. 
I think I have ADD. Maybe. And I was in a waiting room of a public hospital at 4:30 in the morning, desperately trying not to listen to the ongoing police investigation next to me involving the family members of a man injured in a meth lab explosion. (I really can’t make this shit up.) So I thought it would be a deliriously fun way to spend the month. And who knows, maybe it will be!
But things are slowly and steadily improving in the ICU, and he may get released to a step-down transitional unit tomorrow. (Fingers crossed!) And we have so much to be thankful for. So I’ll stop bitching about having to blog every day. (It’s not exactly something to complain about, is it?) All I ask is for post ideas.
What would you like to see on Nested this month? Tell me in the comment section! I’ll try to oblige! 
I realize that that was a horribly clumsy segway from my hostile uterus to shameless self promotion, but I did it anyways. But since the has been a post entirely about “The Ovary of a Crazy Lady,” I leave you this, just to resolve any unsolved issues you may have with my reproductive system. …or the reproductive system of any female for that matter. 
I don’t know where this came from. I found it on Pinterest. But if I ever find it’s maker, I will likely also nominate them for sainthood. And probably a Nobel Peace Prize for laying down Truth Bombs. 
You’re welcome, America.
Happy Monday, y’all! 

Facebook Twitter Pinterest Plusone Stumbleupon Email

Related posts:


  1. Good Lord I love your writing. Keeping up with the speed of your brain this month is going to fun. (Exhausting, but fun.)

    I hate to break it to you, but – take this from a 40-something woman – perimenopause is even worse than puberty. All the same stuff, really, except you also become stupid. Not all the time, mind you, just when it will irritate you the most.

    Oh, I almost forgot about the hot flashes and night sweats.

    I should go away now, and stop scaring the youth.

    • Thank you! 🙂

      My mom tells me the same thing- oh, the joys of hostile uteri. Am I right? Hopefully by then they’ll have the technology to knock my ass out and wake me when it’s over. Only I’ll wake up looking like a Swedish supermodel. Yes. We should start funding that research.

    • Night sweats. Yeah. I sleep on beach towels. I wish I were kidding. But, I have to say, it beats the hell out of puberty. At least now I have some credibility and I can force people to call me “Ma’am” as opposed to “Sweetie.” Another 15 years it’ll be back to “Sweetie.” Ah well.
      Shark Week. Hahahahahahahaahaha!

      Gotta do laundry. The beach towels are piling up…..

    • Sweet cheese, that sounds awful. When that times, if they can’t just knock me out until the menopause is over and wake me up when it’s over, I’ll just be forced to get a wupping stick and a very bitchy little dog. And it will be shark week every day.


  2. You poor thing! I don’t remember puberty being that bad. I’ve never had much problems/pains/scares with the bleeding. When my sister started bleeding too, my dad, being the one going to the supermarket every week, became the Pads Specialist. Wings, perfumes, materials: he knew it all! We often made a lot of fun with that. Especially if he, slightly proudly, described other men standing in front of that aisle, scratching their heads.
    I think most parents deserve to be buried under a pile of golden medals anyway…

    • My dad has a basic, functional knowledge of lady-time accoutrement. My husband, being one of three boys, has none. I’ll have o teach him the ways.

      Thanks for reading! I hope you’ll follow along! 🙂

  3. I think you should send Carter to the store to buy tampons. And I definitely think you should keep writing. Such fun to read you!

  4. OK, I just about lost it over Shark Week! You’re a flippin’ GENIUS!!!!!!
    I am so ashamed, I signed up for September after posting every day forever, THEN proceeded to miss 3 days and drop out. Shamed, shamed, SHAMED!
    Good luck, with both the challenge and your Dad!

    • Isn’t that hilarious! I saw it on Pinterest and LITERALLY texted it to everyone in my address book. You should sign up again for November! We can keep each other accountable through the holiday madness! I’ll start posting batshit crazy things about turkey and salmonella poisoning and Santa. And how I’m terrified of all three.

Leave a Comment: