To welcome 2012’s winter solstice, I went to to Target and menstruated.
My PMS had started about seven days prior and when I did the menstrual math and realized I’d be bleeding during this significant seasonal moment, I felt kind of witchy even though I’m an atheist. The other periodish thing I began considering was the effect that the extreme cold might have on my flow. I wondered, if the weather cooperated, could a lady get a periodsicle? I pictured my gush freezing into a ruby stalagmite, a precious, but chilly, horn topping my herb garden. My periodsicle would be iron-rich and perhaps contain an egg.
Alas, the temperature rose as I dripped. I’ll have to wait to grow my horn.
At Target, shoppers were shoving merchandise into their red carts and husbands and wives were yelling at each other and wishing one another dead, and despite this, it still didn’t feel Christmasy. It hasn’t felt Christmasy for me this year although I’ve received pretty cards and gazed at beachfront Christmas lights and admired the gifts stacked around our fake tree. Maybe our termites have taken my Christmas spirit. Our biggest Christmas gift this year will be fumigation.
Zipping out of the Target parking lot, I got a taste for some risky behavior. I decided that to get home, I would drive through the most dangerous part of Long Beach at the most dangerous hour: the traffic circle at dusk. Most drivers lancing themselves into it don’t know what to do to make it out of this maelstrom alive, every car becomes a salmon out for himself, and the only people who really know how to effectively deal with curvaceous intersections are Europeans.
Juicing my meek Honda, I entered this pie, felt a silly rush, and looked over my right shoulder. Beside me, a terrified driver wearing a red suit, red cap, and white beard manned a white chocolate Cadillac. Though this fellow traveler didn’t have his blinker on, I could tell from his particular panic, and the fact that his vehicle was hugging mine, that he wanted to get off at the same exit as me. In the spirit of the nativity, I became his shepherd, guiding him towards Pacific Coast Highway and then freeing him, letting him fly off to whatever yuletide event was awaiting a melanin-rich Santa.
When I got home, I bragged to TJ about my act of kindness, and she and I spooned, discussing the horrors of finding termites in your underwear. TJ also told me about the latest corporate effort to prevent girls’ toys from turning boys into faggots. Apparently, the Easy-Bake Oven will now come in black and silver so that parents no longer have to worry that their sons will become their daughters while taking two years to bake a brownie.
I told TJ that there’s an easier, more American, remedy: