My daughter got her thingy.
*blank stares*
You know.
Her THINGY.
*blinks and some shoulder shrugs*
UGH.
Her THINGY. THE thingy.
WTF people, do I have to spell it out for you?
The thingy that girls get and it comes once a month…you know…from her toolie.
*aaah*
Yes.
THAT thingy.
*gags
I should probably note at this point that to this day that I have never referred to my kids’ private parts as their actual clinical names and I swear until the day I die my daughter’s V will be called a ‘toolie’ and my son’s P will be called his ‘wiggly’ and that thing that girls get once a month is called a ‘thingy’ as in, “Oh. Did you get your thingy? Dude. Gross.”
I almost feel bad for when they get older and my son’s dirty talk consists of stuff like, “mmm…baby…do you want me to put my wiggly in your toolie?” At which point the poor girl - frozen in fear - just, you know, RUNS.
But if I don’t maintain this semblance of innocence I feel I will die inside so bear with me.
Regardless, I got a wonderful text from my ex-wife one day that simply said:
Ex: “Payt got it.”
Wait. Did I miss something? Was she up for the main part in a play? Was there some trip to the store for some out of stock item that she’d been wanting for a while but I neglected to pay attention because, HELLO, she’s a girl and guys don’t pay attention to girls ESPECIALLY their daughters because girls are incredibly annoying.
?
I had no idea what my ex-wife was talking about.
Me: “Got what.”
Ex: “It.”
Oh.
IT.
THAT it.
Her….
THINGY.
My face went pale. I felt myself getting woozy, my legs getting weak… this couldn't possibly be happening.
Me: “GAH.”
Ex: “You’re going to need to get her supplies for your house.”
SUPPLIES?!
This is now quickly becoming the worst day in history but instead of having a “Never Forget” bumper sticker for it, this one would say “OMG IS THERE ANY WAY TO GET A LOBOTOMY AROUND HERE?!”
Supplies. Like this is some kind of sick art project or that we’re gathering foodstuffs for going hiking on the worst. Trail. Ever.
But I know what ‘supplies’ means:
Pads and vajayjay torpedoes.
Me: “OMG can you just get them? Please? I beg you.”
Ex: “Just go and get some pads. She doesn't need tampons yet. I got her some pads called “Tweens.” That’s all she needs right now.”
*aneurism
Me: “I want to die. Pads? Tweens? Is that a make or model?”
Ex: “Just get some regular ones and some overnight ones.”
THEY MAKE DIFFERENT KINDS DEPENDING ON THE TIME OF DAY?!?!
Me: “OMG…seriously…ARE THERE SIZES?!”
I assumed there are sizes for these things because a tween toolie can’t be the same size as, say, Oprah’s toolie so there HAS to be some difference in these things. I’ve seen a ton of porn and some of these HAVE to be larger than others, right?
Do you get sized for these things? Is there one of those foot-measuring things hanging around in the feminine hygiene aisle except, you know, that measures your V?
*head explodes
Shortly after waking up from this nightmare I realized that it wasn’t actually a nightmare and found myself wandering into Target alone and afraid and confused because I think my ex-wife was pretty much enjoying the fact that I was losing my shit.
It was on or around this time that I ventured down the main aisle. Passing the kids clothing…the greeting cards…the movies…
..my pace slowed. My subconscious mind was kicking in that no man should ever have to do this. I mean, there was that one time I think I had to run and get ‘supplies’ for my ex-wife but I was younger and foolish and IT WASN’T FOR MY DAUGHTER.
Maybe I’ll just go look at the televisions and NO! NO ROD! STAY THE COURSE! Your little girl depends on you!
I turned into THE AISLE.
There I stood. At 5’4” tall I stood between two 7’ high walls of big, poofy packages and multi-colored boxes. I was overwhelmed, like a kid who just had 3 Hershey bars walking into a Chuck E. Cheese for the first time.
SO MUCH. JUST…So. Much.
My eyes scanned for, what did she say? I checked back through my texts - a lot of which were from my ex at the end saying “Hello? Are you there?” because I had apparently been in a catatonic state for 12 hours.
“Tweens.”
My eyes quickly scanned. Tweens…Tweens…Tweens..OMFG I CANNOT FIND ‘TWEENS’ pads and will SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME?!
A woman walks into the aisle and I glance at her with a ‘help me’ puppy-dog stare but, seriously, what am I going to ask her? “Hi..my little girl got her..you know..and I need to get her these things..I guess..and will you do me a favor (*hands her my car key*) and just slice my jugular open with this? Thanks.”
At this point I felt like James Franco in “127 Hours” where I’m stuck under that boulder and know deep down that I’m really on my own here and NO ONE is helping me find “Tweens” maxi-pads for my daughter’s thingy and I would seriously consider cutting my arm off at this point if God would just make her thingy hold off for another, like, 7 years or something when she can shop for this shit herself.
That’s when I spot the “Tweens.”
The LAST BOX of “Tweens.”
I quickly grab the last box of "Tweens" like I’m Gollum grabbing that damn ring and actually really wish it was that ring because I would totally put it on and become invisible right now.
Tweens down, I look for the ‘overnights.’ Sadly, only 2 makes of these things appear to be ‘overnight pads’ and based on the size of the soft packaging they are actually made for use on the overnight periods of African Elephants. I’m guessing these things inside the package are about a foot long and could probably be used as floatation devices in some emergency situations.
I spin around and stare at the opposite wall. SO MANY PADS. Nope..no overnights over there. Wait..wings? Do I get wings?!
Me: “Okay. One box of Tweens. The overnights though. They look huge. Wings? Do I get wings?!”
Ex: “No. No wings.”
I look again and the only overnights they have have wings. I jumped the gun on the ‘wings’ question. Awfuck. Now what. Ex said ‘no wings’ but all the overnights are winged. I feel like I’m shopping for a parrot. Well, shit. She’s gonna have to get wings. I wish I had wings because I’d fly right the Hell out of here. I’m beginning to get dizzy. This is probably because I’ve now been standing in this aisle for 3 hours and am in need of sustenance.
I grab a package of overnights, tuck it under my arm with the Tweens, grab a Harley Davidson magazine just to even everything out and head to the checkout.
DONE.
I went home, cleared out a drawer in the bathroom, put all my girl’s “supplies” in it, closed it and ran away to the other end of the house.
Then I read my Harley magazine and found a new seat that I wanted for my bike because the padding on mine is a little thin.
Padding.
Pad.
Ugh.
I wish I had 2 boys.
