Candy Tampons

Names have been changed to protect the innocent. Also, if you do not like vulgarity or talk of menstruation, this isn’t the blog for you.

Have you ever asked a good friend if they would take a bullet for you? It's a relatively common question we ask each other in order to find out how loved we actually are. Taking a bullet is the most intense hypothetical act of love we, as humans, can imagine. I’m here today to challenge this assumption.

Twelve years ago I found myself in a situation that all adolescent females fear. Still, when I think about it, it gives me shivers of fright. I was on a class field trip with all my closest friends, staying in a hotel with a pool. I was also on my period. I know, I know, it’s painful to recall.


Now, most ladies would say, aside from feeling like a bloated, crampy cow, this should be no problem as tampons would be the easy solution. Well, I refused—and still refuse—to wear them. I’m sorry, but my axe wound (Thanks, John) is not a storage unit. I don’t feel comfortable leaving items unattended for long periods of time in there, if you catch my drift.



My friend, however, really wanted me to swim with her. Teenage girls can be quite cohesive, as we all know. So, with the strength of Candy, as we’ll call her, I decided to make my debut in the world of Tampons. What happened next taught me the phrase, “Listen to your instincts.”

As I entered the bathroom and began unwrapping and preparing, I started to sweat. I looked into the mirror and thought to myself, you can do this, Melanie. I was pale and frightened looking. Candy was waiting outside the door, using her most soothing voice to tell me about the benefits and comforts of such a product. My heart began to pound. I can’t be sure, but I think I held my breath for seven straight minutes until, finally, I worked up the courage to get it done.

In the exact instant that it entered, I said to myself, “I shouldn’t have done this!” Then, I promptly began to lose my mind. I felt sick and began telling Candy that I was going to puke. I was pouring sweat, and then I started to cry. Not a relaxed, ashamed cry, but a panic, wild, screaming cry. All the wile I kept saying, “Get it out. Get it out!” I wanted it out so bad but I couldn’t do it for some reason. I couldn't move or think. It still remains as the first and last panic attack I’ve ever had.

Poor Candy. She wasn’t sure what to do. There was no amount of logic that could have abated my misery. As I sat under the florescent light of a foreign room, feeling irrationally violated by a completely common and safe household product, Candy made a decision.

Because she loved me and knew I had gone bat-shit crazy, she decided that she would pull it out for me. My best friend, who at one point wanted nothing more than to swim with me, was now going to pull my tampon out so I could feel safe again. I heard her nervous, desperate voice say to me, “Mel, let me in. I’ll do it for you. Calm down, it’ll be ok.”

At that moment I realized that I had to pull it out, not for me but for her. I couldn’t let my poor friend do this atrocious task. Yuck. Knowing that I had a friend who cared so much about me that she'd pull out my used tampon, made me feel strong again. I wiped the sweat from my brow, as the saying goes, and pulled that sucker out.

That was twelve years ago and I still refuse to wear them. They’re creepy and gross and I hate them. Aside from learning that I’m kind of a wimp, I learned that “taking a bullet” is proverbial child’s play. If you want to know what a real friend is, ask if they’ll pull out a tampon for you. That’s the true test.

Thank again, Candy. You know who you are.

Boyfriends: A Sentimental Look Back at The Men in My Life

Boyfriends #3:

Yes, I pluralized boyfriends above and it was not an accident. There was a brief period of time that I courted about town, not one, but, two gentleman. Judge me if you must.
3a, as we’ll call him, is a great guy. The kind of guy, in fact, that would move to Africa and dedicate his life to a charity organization which saves orphans and introduces them to Christ. 3b, is a convicted felon serving 7-9 for manslaughter. Truth is sometimes stranger than fiction, indeed.

3a, The Missionary is, in fact, a man of God and, trust me, for those who know me that’s a punch line all on its own. He still remains in my memory as one of the most interesting humans ever created on earth. He had dreadlocks and a giant, wild beard. He wore a black studded belt and faded band t-shirts. He drank expensive tea out of gourds but refused to pay more than sixty cents per meal. He would buy a frozen package of rib flavored mystery meat and eat them for breakfast, lunch, and dinner until they were gone. He played guitar for his church’s band and considered himself a “born again” Christian.

I went to his church once to watch him play in the band. I woke up late (hung-over), and sat through five minutes of a Catholic baptism. After a while (too long), I remembered he wasn’t Catholic and realized I was in the wrong church. I’m a Christian sectarian racist; they all look the same to me.

He still remains the only person to ever make Christianity seem appealing. I am immediately turned off due to the inherit threat of eternal damnation. I don’t like to be threatened. Also, I don’t like living with obvious logical discrepancies. However, he was able to maintain faith and acknowledge the inaccuracies at the same time. He lived with the Bible’s broken myths and, as a result, made religion seems aesthetically legitimate, and wise. Plus, he wasn’t annoying about it.

He was, and I’m sure still is, an amazing person. Unfortunately, I like people to have a little filth to them, which leads us to 3b, The Felon.




3b, The Felon, was hilarious. He was funny in a “let’s smash mailboxes” kind of way. No, we never smashed mail boxes, I just mean the kind of fun that’s reckless and usually at someone else’s expense.

While 3a was being all, optimistic and Churchie, 3b was being a real life Candide. Candide is like the Bible’s Job, but better. Like Job, Candide is faced with life’s atrocious suffering but instead of remaining a pious believer, he comes to the conclusion that God can’t be real due to all the terrible evil in the world. And, if he is real, then he’s a dick.

Candide’s life was so terrible that it reads like a dark comedy to me. It just gets so ridiculous that all one can do is laugh. You name it, Candide has suffered it: rape; murder; war; death; torture . . . And, that’s the life of 3b; a complete disaster.

When he was young, he had an accident that left him unable to “perform.” (So you see, I never physically cheated. Feel bad for judging me?). Can you imagine that, though? Also, his dad was a drunken abuser and his mom died when he was young. He was basically an orphan and, as a result, developed a drinking problem. But, can you blame him?

A few years ago he was driving a friend home from a night on the town, but his friend never made it home. She never made it home because 3b was driving drunk and flipped his car into a telephone pole. She died and he is now in prison for manslaughter.

I wonder if he has maintained his Candide spirit? Probably not—Lord knows people have a way of finding Jesus in the clink.

It’s only in retrospect that I’m able to pick out the irony between these two people in my life. It must have been that I was developing my spiritual identity by surrounding myself with the most fascinating minds I could find. So here I am, an empathetic thinker who believes in social change, yet, prefers Candide to Job. It doesn’t seem to make sense but, I have learned to live with broken myths.

Dexter: The Love of My Life. I'm Here To Defend You!

Dexter, like most shows, is starting to get a lot of negative criticism. Nobody seems to support the events of season five. I’ve read about a zillion bad reviews, so, I’m writing a good one because I feel the need to defend my favorite show of all time. No, not because I’m in love with Michal C. Hall (although I totally am).

First of all, TV shows (at least one with evolving characters i.e. The Simpson's & Seinfeld excluded), tend to have a bell curve approval rating. Dexter started slow. When I started watching it wasn’t the mega hit it became starting with season three. Then, with season four, the show had peaked. People went delirious for Dexter! And, it was a great season. But now, it has nowhere to go but down, which it did according to popular opinion. However, I disagree and here is why:

Dexter is evolving every season. Season one his world was shattered. Season two, he was almost discovered for who he was, but managed (through nail biting suspense) to come out unscathed and, as a result, was reborn into a more confident and self-actualized vigilante. Season three, he tested Harry’s code for the first time and decided to have a family and let people into his world. It didn’t quite work, but he was still determined to try. Season four, he was driven to test Harry’s code further, trying desperately to have a family and prove that he was capable of normalcy and companionship. Then Rita died and, alas, his deviation from the code failed again. Which brings us to season five; the season hated by the masses for being slow moving and trite.

Listen, the show is about a man with a code. A man who is trying to alter the code in order to not be so alone. He is a lonely frigger and up until season five he has had to kill (or inadvertently cause the death of) everyone he has tried to be close with. Until Lumen. He broke free of Harry! Harry admitted he was wrong!! How is that not deviating from Dexter as usual? It was a positive season which was in direct response to the tragedy of season four. It has set Dexter free and gave him post-Rita hope.

Not only that, but Dexter is, in a way, closer to Deb, too. She no longer sees the world as the iron-clad, moral illusion that Harry left behind for her. Both of the Morgans are free from Harry’s code. Finally! So Deb, without knowing it, has finally accepted Dexter (kind of). It’s poetic and wonderful!

Quit being a bunch of haters! =)

The First Installment of Boyfriends: A Sentimental Look Back At the Men in My Life

I was in high school when I met boyfriend #1. He was the blue eyed, soulful, romantic type. The kind that makes me roll my eyes. Not the kind of eye roll where you’d scowl and say, “God, you’re stupid.”But rather, the kind of eye roll where one might snicker and say, “you’re naive, kid. They’ll be others if you quit being such a sap and get over it already.”

He was sweet though, and we remain friends still, to this day. But, there is something I never told him that might make him sad. I never, not even for one second, thought I’d marry him. Even though I was only eighteen and couldn’t have possibly understood how much life I had ahead of me, I knew I would understand it someday. I knew I was too young to have found my “soul mate,” or whatever other gagging term people use to describe their significant other.

He didn’t think that, though. He thought we were fated. (Enter whimsical music). The way he would describe it: “I took one look at you and I knew we were twin souls who had once been torn apart and had been seeking wholeness ever since.” Then he’d probably say some shit like: “Now our souls are one and I love you more than the air I breathe.”

(Screeching halt to music).

Ugh. Gag me. Look, you hopeless romantics. You have a subconscious community endeared to your cute, sensitive ways; you’re amorous brethren are set and ready to indoctrinate the next round of people who ignore what’s obviously ephemeral. I’m not a fan, clearly, and I’m here to give you a little advice. I don’t usually do this but, whatever, it’s Christmas:

If when you met your girlfriend/boyfriend they still had braces on, they’re probably not your soul mate.

But, seriously. Why in the world would people want to marry their high school sweetheart anyway? I mean, statistically it’s been proven, they’re not happy. Besides, there is that delightful period I refer to as, The College Years. Granted, they don’t have to be spent, literally, in college. I just mean that period of time in ones' life. When I think back on my time spent at Kent State, I don’t like to remember papers I wrote or grades I received. I like to think of all the parties I went to; all the guys I met; of all the single, unattached fun I had.(Clever euphemism)

So, when I think of boyfriend #1, yes, I do recall the fun we had singing Mary Chapin Carpenter’s Passion and Kisses at the top of our lungs while riding down the street in his car. But what I remember most, is how much I’ve done since then. So, who says pessimistic realists can’t be happy? I like my perspective; I own it.




Boyfriend #2

I, literally,hardly remember anything about this guy. Maybe this shouldn’t make him important but I think it still does and I’ll show you why.

#2 was a bit older than me. He was, maybe, five years older or something. Like I said, I don’t really remember. He was good looking, until he spoke. I don’t remember a single conversation we had in the year—maybe two—we were together, but I do remember a conversation he had with my friend.

All of my high school friends had gathered, sometime after we graduated, to play cards and hang out. I brought #2. To be clear, I never entertained any ideas about us being star crossed lovers, or anything. I just brought him because, well, hell, why not?

My friends began to engage him in polite conversation. It was all mundane, trite small talk up until he used the word fixin in a sentence. Yep, fixin, in its verb form. I was watching my friend react. She blinked hard once and an indecipherable, Mona Lisa smile came on her face. She was polite and let it go, but I knew already what she had just learned. He was temporary. I don’t remember where he was born or what his parents were like;m what his middle name was; what music he listened to. All I remember is that he was wrong for me and my friend knew it instantly.

That’s why #2 is important. He taught me to trust my friends and family. Now, I’m not talking about psychotic parents who don’t think anyone is good enough for their baby. Don’t listen to them. I’m talking about kind, level headed loved ones who know you really well. They probably know before you do whether your relationship is going to last.

Needles to say, I broke it off with #2. I don’t remember how I did it but I imagine I said something like, “it’s not you it’s me . . . I hope we can still be friends,” or, “I’ll never forget you.”

Razzy Cakes

While I was growing up, we always had dogs. There was Max, Isis, Skippy, Suzie . . . maybe there were more, I don’t remember. The dogs always liked my mom best. I was young and I couldn’t take care of myself, let alone a dog. Dogs know these things; they love whomever the can count on.
There is one dog, however, that I really fell in love with. In fact, I love him so much that his name nearly replaces the noun, dog. Like the words Kleenex or Band-Aid, they’re names that supersede the generic word used before them. Sometimes, without thinking, I accidentally call my dogs—or any dogs—Razzle. It’s out of nowhere and even though I haven’t seen him in a while. He is etched into my heart and his presence in my mind is as dominant as his name is in my language.




Razzle is a miniature Schnauzer. He is silver with a cute black nose which is tattooed by a little pink mark—maybe from birth. He looks like a typical Schnauzer, although he is small for his breed and his ears were never clipped. His ears, which are considered an imperfection, are his best feature. They are so expressive. He can lift just one into an alert stance, and that means he is listening. If he lifts them both, look out, he hears something and he is probably going to start yodel barking. Sometimes his ears get itchy and he has to lie on his side and scratch them with both his front paws, pulling both his ears down over his eyes while snorting wildly. No matter where is ears are placed, or how itchy they might be, Razzle is always smiling.

Razzle was diagnosed with diabetes a few years back and his life was never the same after that. Although he was fed a proper amount of food, he has remained too skinny and seemingly delicate. He wasn’t allowed to partake in yummy dog treats and his eyes began to fail. He is now blind. Despite his misfortune, up until recently, Razzle has still been smiling.

It’s time now, however. Losing a dog is shattering. It’s times, near the end of their lives, when we start to wish we weren’t dog lovers. We start to envy the people who think dogs are dirty and annoying, and who refer to them as its. The same people who I don’t fully like.

But, the thing about death is, we know it won’t be bad for Razzle. He’s lived out his life as best he can. He will die and recycle his wonderful spirit back into the earth. The thing about death is, it’s the people still living that feel the pain. I’m proud of my mom for letting Razzle go. It’s very selfless.

After ten to fifteen years of bathing, feeding, snuggling, entertaining, and overall selfless devotion to a living creature that will never make a profit or even return those simple favors, it’s the letting them die part that is the most self-sacrificing gesture.

R.I.P. Razzle

The Books I've Read Over Break

Whenever the semester ends I get super excited to read books of my choice. Unfortunately, however, I am terrible at making choices. This blog will be home to a couple of devastating reviews on books I've had the unfortunate experience of reading.




Dead Until Dark:
Many of my friends got my heart a flutter when suggesting I read this book. Being that I am a proud fan of Twilight, they were sure I'd enjoy the first book of the True Blood series. But, what they didn't factor in was that the book is retarded and I generally don't like retarded books.

Sookie and Bill are lovers. First of all, Sookie is a ridiculous name. I wouldn't even name my cat that. And, Bill!? Seriously?! I'm sorry, but I will not be fantasizing about a man named Bill. Bills are old men with big, gross beards who smoke pipes and are married to women named Arlene. Gross.

Secondly, the book takes place is Shitville. It's a small, southern, redneck, poor town and the leading lady is a bartender. Please. I read fantasy books to escape the world I live in, not recreate it.

Finally, Sookie (ridiculous name) can read minds. Yet, she's always wondering what people are thinking. YOU READ MINDS! I have an idea, Sookie . . . If you want to know what people are thinking, why don't you READ THEIR MINDS!!!

So, yes, I thought the book was atrocious and, yet, I read the whole thing. And, I have to be honest, although the characters said hillbilly things like, "chompin at the bit," I still find myself curious about what happens next. So, if anyone has the next book in the series, I'd like to borrow it.

A Sentimental Education:



A Sentimental Education was way too difficult to be relaxing. But, let's be honest, I'm going to read the next True Blood book so obviously I like to torture myself. It was about a pretentious, douche-bag Frenchman from the late 1800s. He, Frederic, spends his whole life squandering his inheritance and trying to have an affair with his best friend's wife.

He's a douche; he's materialistic; he cares too much about being a member of society; he's a creep. The worst part, though, he's the hero. Yep, he's the best of the bunch. And I do mean a bunch. True to French literature there were 157 characters and sentences that lasted for a whole page.

Despite the main character being a tool bag and the run-on sentences, the book was actually great. There was close attention paid to the French revolution which sounds remarkably like contemporary America. You know, one party demonizing socialism and one party demonizing capitalism. In the end, the French citizens fought til the death--literally--and, as a result, became the France we know today. The book was fascinating, especially since we all know how history has a funny way of repeating itself.

I read a couple memoirs, too. They were easy, great reads by Joyce Dyer. She's a pretty successful author from Akron, Ohio and I greatly enjoy her work. I guess, in the end, I have not done such a bad job choosing books. Sometimes, it's even more fun to hate a book than it is to love it. The best part is, my break is not over so I still have plenty of time left. Any suggestions?