skip to main |
skip to sidebar
I know there are worse things in life. Like being eaten by a T-Rex.
Or falling naked into a vat of boiling lava. Or auditioning for a musical.
But there are few things worse than a beach trip yeast infection.
(Men, you may be well-served skipping this blog, for it contains some unsettling details about this lady malady.)
And for those men stupid brave enough to continue, don't say I didn't warn you.
I should have known it was coming. I had just finished a round of antibiotics. It was day 2 at the beach. The itch began.
As you probably know, it is literally impossible to satisfy a yeast infection itch. Once itched, the itch intensifies. Exponentially.
Not to mention the fact that it is socially inappropriate to attempt said itch in public.
I was walking on the beach when I first felt it. Oh, how I wanted to itch it.
I found that walking like a beauty contestant, tightly crossing one leg over the other with each step, helped. But there was something incongruous with the whole look.
(I suppose a tiara may have helped.)
Needless to say, wearing wet bathing suits exacerbates a yeast infection, making a beach trip yeast infection a bit of a problem.
There is an over-the-counter medication for yeast infections, Monistat, which is quite delightful. Allow me to describe the treatment. You stick a little egg up your va-jay-jay, lance it open with a dagger, and let the medicinal slime drool from the egg all over your lady parts.
(It's best to do this while in a prone position.)
Monistat used to be the only option for yeast infections. Until Ken Richards invented Diflucan.
I love Ken Richards.
I paid 48¢ for my Diflucan pill at the pharmacy in Beaufort on Wednesday. "I would have paid $48 for that pill," I commented, as I moved from leg to leg attempting to satisfy my internal itch in a socially acceptable way.
And you know what? In what must be the most egregious omission of all time, Ken Richards is not on the list of the greatest heroes of history.
My Superman was overlooked.
Within a day I was able to keep my hands off myself for hours at a time. My beach yeast infection was a thing of the past.
If it weren't for Ken, I'd be reloading my netherlands with a slime-filled egg.
Speaking of eggs, there is another market for Monistat. Apparently, it works wonders on chickens suffering from "sour crop". Here's a quote I found on a raising chickens website:
Add me to the "trying Monistat" bandwagon. This is my first flock of chickens, but I've had them for two years and they've been perfectly healthy until Comet started acting funny a few days ago. From all I've read, I believe her to have sour crop. I have her in the house and just force fed her the first piece of Monistat 3 suppository.
WTH? The chicken "ate" the Monistat egg?
Maybe they should have given Comet some Diflucan. I'll bet it works better. And faster. With no mess.
I'm just not sure which end it should go in.
I admit it. My timing could have been better. In what could only be described as a Lucy Ricardo moment, I jumped into my car wearing my fruit-loop muumuu, lugging my lime green blanket, striped beach towel and teal umbrella.
Before all the neighbors sitting around the pool even knew what had happened.
Linda was screaming as loud as she could (under her breath), “Hurry Mom!!! You’re embarrassing me!”
I put the keys in the ignition ready, to make a quick get-away.
OMG. Dead battery.
Let me back up.
I 'm going to the beach on Saturday and I have a teeny tiny problem.
I do not want to be seen in public wearing a bathing suit.
Why not?
First, a roll of toilet paper looks tan next to me.
Second, bathing suits tend to spotlight my...imperfections.
I know that's difficult to believe, considering how good I look fully clothed.
But on the Benjamin Moore color wheel, my stomach is shaded somewhere between "cloud white" and "cotton balls".
And over the years, my six pack has evolved to a two liter bottle.
To that end, I decided to exercise my only option.
I bought a muumuu.
Knowing that my muumuu might make good blog fodder, I asked Linda to take a photo of me modeling it.
At the neighborhood pool.
As we pulled into the parking lot, which admittedly, was overflowing with cars, Linda needed convincing.
“Nobody will notice me. We’ll be in and out in a flash. You just have to take the picture. I’ll pay you $5.00”
We were like a well-oiled machine. I slapped down the blanket, threw a towel over my legs, opened the umbrella and said "cheese".
But a quick get-away was not in the cards. My battery was dead.
I took a deep breath and said, “I need to get someone to jump my car.”
Linda looked at me as if I'd grown another head.
“Take off that …thing,” she pleaded. (I assumed she was referring to my muumuu.)
“I can’t,” I confessed. “I don’t have anything on underneath. Except my liter bottle.”
I was wearing shorts underneath, and made a rather unsuccessful pathetic attempt to tuck my size 2XL muumuu into the waistband. I casually approached a table of neighbors (I did not know).
I could hear Linda groaning from under the front seat of the car.
“Excuse me,” I said nonchalantly. “Do any of you have jumper cables?”
Now, hindsight is 20-20, but I wish I’d thought of attaching one end of the jumper cables to my umbrella and the other to the lawn chair and asking Linda to take a picture of my jumper cable tanning bed.
That would have made a great picture!
Kids these days have it so damn easy.
When I was exploring careers, I had to do research. Read books. Thick books. In the Guidance Counselor's office.
Do you how much work was involved in narrowing down my list of potential careers from sheepherder to nerd?
Damn straight.
I couldn't just turn to my Barbie doll for career options. Like this generation can.
Nope. The only thing I could do with my Barbie Doll was dress her up. And try and get those stinkin' shoes to stay on her stupid pointy feet.
If only Barbie I Can Be Dolls had been around when I was a kid. Who knows what I may have become.
I could have been a Pancake Chef!
(I could also have been a Pancake Chef-African American, although I'm not exactly sure how that would have worked.)
What if I had owned an I Can Be a Splash and Spin Dolphin Trainer Barbie Doll?
As a matter of fact, I had (and still have) an astonishing aptitude for splashing and a spinning. If only I had known that those traits were transferrable to Dolphin Training.
I could have been a Splash and Spin Dolphin Trainer.
The list of I Can Be careers is nearly infinite: from Panda Caretaker to President! From Pet Vet to Architect. From McDonalds Worker to..
Paleontologist!
Sigh.
I could have been a Paleontologist. I think a Paleontologist sounds so dignified and impressive.
I wonder what it is?
It's probably someone who helps movie stars find their lost diamonds.
Damn.
Wonder why Mattel never released an I Can be a Nerd Barbie Doll?
One can only imagine how I might have turned out with a little encouragement from Barbie.
I was absolutely dreading my upcoming
beach vacation. 
It is so unfair.
Most people are able to completely
relax at the beach, enjoying the warm ocean breezes while sipping adult beverages.
But not me.
You see, men constantly hit on me. Interrupt my logic puzzles.
I try and let them down nicely. "No, I'm sorry. I would love to go para-sailing with you,
Frank. But I have a very jealous
husband."
Before I could begin to focus on the
next clue in my logic puzzle, another man would approach, offering a tour of
the inter-coastal on his yacht.
"I told you yesterday, Donald. I'm happily married. Oh, come on, Donald. Don't cry.
There are plenty of other beautiful woman for you."
"I know, Donald. You may have to lower your standards a bit,
but you'll find someone."
It's exhausting.
Donald would leave with his head hung
low and I would attempt to re-focus on my logic puzzle. Next thing you know Manuel would approach
from my right with a margarita, inviting me to go salsa dancing.
OMG!
How could I EVER finish this 5-star logic puzzle under these conditions?
Thankfully, this will no longer be a
problem for me! You see, my friend
Caroline has turned me on to the latest invention from China, Hair Stockings,
designed to ward off perverts.
And I believe Hair Stockings will help
my cause.
It was quite easy to make my own pair
of Hair Stockings. All I needed was beige
fishnet tights, hairy black yarn and a crochet hook.
My Black Hair Stockings will not only allow
me solve logic puzzles un-interrupted for hours at a time, they are SPF 100. (Yes, I am a stinkin' genius.)
I tested them out at the pool.
The most challenging part of this
project was getting Linda to go to the pool with me to take the picture.
"Are you kidding, Mom? What if there are people at the pool?"
"Nobody will be there. And if there are, we'll tell them it's for my
blog."
"No way, Mom!"
So I paid her.
I'm a little worried that my Black Hair Stockings will not deter all men. I mean, given
the over-powering nature of my beauty, they may not notice my black hairy legs.
But, as always, I have a Plan B:
I was completely torn. I had just placed my order at the Wendy's drive-thru speaker.
Should I ask for a knife when I get to the window?
If I did, it would certainly tip off my identity. They would know that I was the “Knife Lady”. The one who complained in a survey about how the drive-thru worker didn't put a knife in my bag. The knife that I requested. In person. To the drive-thru lady. Who said, "I already put a knife in your bag."
I believed her. And got back to my office only to discover that she lied to me.
So I filled out the survey.
And they’d probably know about my second complaint, too. About the missing bag of nuts on the visit following that of the missing knife. This time I posted a comment about the missing bag of nuts on their feedback page.
A rather emotional comment.
But I really wanted those nuts! Much more than I wanted the knife.
The Wendy's store manager had responded to my comment and was very apologetic. He most certainly mentioned it to his team.
I decided not to ask for a knife.
But I wanted a knife.
I could always play it cool. Casually say, “Hey, while you're at it, can you toss a knife in the bag?”
She'd see right through me.
I thought about saying, “Can you throw in a spoon? Oh what the hell—I’ll take a knife, too.”
Or “Can I get a cup of water and some ketchup and some salt, a straw and a knife?"
But I decided to err on the safe side. I was not about to disclose my identity simplly because I wanted a stinkin' knife for my salad.
I drove up to the window and nonchalantly handed the woman my credit card. She smiled and asked, "How are you today?"
I told her I was fine.
She smiled even more broadly, and said in the sweetest voice I've ever heard.
"Let's see. Yes, here's a knife for you."
"Oh! And here's your bag of nuts!"
I slowly sunk into my armpit and mumbled a pathetic "thank you."
Next time I'm going in disguise.
Warning! Step away from this blog.
In fact, if someone is reading this blog out loud to you, put your hands over your ears now and sing "LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA-LA" at the top of your lungs for the next 3 minutes.
And if you happen to be reading this blog, you'd better pour yourself a big glass of wine before continuing.
But not red wine.
How can I, a living, breathing, female, have possibly made it to middle-age without knowing of this product?
And I just stumbled upon it.
I had been innocently researching GoGirl competitors on Amazon. I was intrigued by the names of female portable urinary devices. The Urinelle is a good name, if you like the word urinate - which I don't.
Considering my affinity for the word "pee", I found the P EZ Ladies' Travel Urinal to be a good name, as was the P-Mate.
Wait a minute. What is that product right next to the Shewee?
The DivaCup Model 2 Post Childbirth?
A little voice in my head told me to step away from the computer.
Did I pay attention? No. I clicked on the photo.
I was still confused. There was no description for this product.
But there were 781 reviews. The little voice began to talk louder.
"Do NOT CLICK ON THE REVIEWS."
I clicked.
OMG.
Did you know that there is a product that women wear in their va-jay-jays during that time of the month?
A stinkin' shot glass that you fill up with juice from your netherlands.
I warned you to stop reading!
Apparently, the DivaCup Model 2 Post Childbirth is an alternative to the tampon. And mattress pads.
I am sorry to disappoint you, readers, but I will not be test driving a DivaCup Model 2 Post Childbirth.
I suspect that my experience would be similar to that of one very eloquent Amazon reviewer:
Now, you're supposed to roll the cup up, smuggle it past the border, let it expand, then turn it clockwise (or counter clockwise, or then one way and another, stopping when you hear the click, or something...) anyway, you're supposed to be able to turn this thing like a dial in there."If the cup does not turn easily, you did it wrong" Oh, of course, I'll just grasp hold of a thing about the size, shape, and slipperyness of the pointy end of a peeled hard-boiled egg, which is now buried in the meaty folds of my innermost femininity, which, I may add, are well-sluiced with the special effects from a Quentin Tarantino film, and spin that sucker like a dredel.
Yeah. I think I'll pass on this one.
Besides, I think this product has a serious design flaw. How the heck does this DivaCup sit on the table without spilling?
Duh.
My Superman was overlooked.
