Menos - By Bitten

While many women hysterically curl up in the fetal position when they get their period, I beam for 3-7 days and silently thank the moon, ocean tides, my non-knocked up womb, Santy Claus and whoever/whatever else I deem responsible for allowing me to bleed another month.

The reason for my borderline psychotic glee is simply due to the fact that I'm not menopausal.

Menopause isn't something they fill you in on when you sit awkwardly in your sixth grade sex-ed class and view a dusty film reel displaying diagrams of boners and fallopian tubes.



I didn't go to middle school in 1957, but the film I watched in 1990 hadn't been updated much since then. Nobody warns you that white jeans, sore boobs and breakouts will one day be the least of your concerns - that as you drift slowly into your 50's a Cathy Guisewite alien latches itself onto your reproductive system and forces you to do terrible things to yourself (chopping hair off, wearing Snuggies and Ugg boots everyday, growing out moustache) and others (Writing ten page complaint letters to a Starbuck's assistant manager about lukewarm latte, describing your hot flashes to a health food store clerk for an hour).

See, I've become familiar with what mother nature has in store for me thanks to my job at a restaurant that seems to attract every non-menustrating woman within 20 miles. Apart from sorority girls and stew bums who come in and clog our toilet with newspaper, menopausal women are the absolute worst customers and seem to constantly travel in packs, ensuring your day will turn to shit by the time they've all had the chance to break a small part of your spirit.

I can sense them a block away now. The skies darken and birds scatter as they approach the restaurant. Their cackling laughs pierce what was a silent and unevenful lunch rush. I immediately turn on the charm, ensuring that I tend to all their needs. It's a little test I run every time a new table of menos walks in. "This one is going to be different", I say during my little self pep talk "These women are going to be delightful, and tip well". Within five seconds I resign myself to the fact that they're just like all the rest. "Can I get you ladies something to drink"? I attempt to make eye contact with each of them, but they're too busy scowling at the menu. One of them grunts. No response, so I ask again "Would you like a few drinks before ordering lunch"? Long pause, then:

"Do you have any Splenda if I were to order an iced tea"?

"No, I'm sorry. Unfortunately we only have Equal or Sweet & Low at the moment".

She bristles, "How can you expect me to drink my iced tea without Splenda"? Her gaze is fixed directly on me, waiting for a response from me to meet her impossible approval.

"I'm really sorry" I say, and then "We recently ran out, but should have some in stock within the next day or two".

"Well, I'm here now" she looks like she is on the verge of tears. Her three friends haven't said a word, or glanced up at me since I approached the table. The Splenda lady hunches over and begins to read the menu again. I stand over them for a awkward sixty seconds in silence before I begin to walk back to the kitchen.

"EXCUSE ME"! another woman from the table shrieks across the restaurant. I spin around to catch a set of beady eyes shrouded by dark circles glaring at me. "WE ARE READY TO ORDER NOW"! She's violently shaking. Her frizzy brown perm with two inch long grey roots makes her look like one of her hands is constantly palming an electrostatic ball used at science fairs. Her friends also look livid. Like I didn't literally just walk away from their table after asking them several times if they'd like to order. I force a smile, and head back. They look smug. I briefly consider grabbing the bucket of used mop water from the kitchen staff bathroom and dumping it on their table. Five minutes pass, and I still haven't written down half of their orders due to diet restrictions, neurotic specifications on how they'd like their lunches heated and inability to decide on soup or salad, chicken or salmon, regular Coke or Diet Coke. Meanwhile, several tables of recently sat customers are boring holes into my back with their eyes as they grow increasingly irritated by the wait time. The menos appear to delight in the fact that I'm becoming a bit frazzled. I punch their complete order into the computer and silently scream during the process. Their order reads:

Bacon burger, no tomatoes, onions or mayo.
Add extra pickles. Cook bacon and burger to a crisp.
Cut fry order in 1/2, sub rosemary for salt.
Iced Tea with one lemon and one lime muddled.

Caesar salad, split on two plates.
Add salmon, 1/2 order, blackened well - rubbed with cajun spices.
Dressing, parmesan and croutons on side.
1/2 caf 1/2 decaf coffee with 2% milk (heated up in microwave), sugar and honey

Grilled cheese, hold the cheese (lactose intolerant)
sub tempeh. Grill like a panini, but on a sourdough roll.
No fries, sub salad. Cucumbers only, dressing on the side.
Sugar free Italian vanilla soda with extra shot of syrup and side glass of soda water (in case it doesn't live up to her standards)

I take my time with their order. No way am I going to give them the satisfaction of sending their plates back. After I drop off their drinks, the complaints begin "My coffee isn't hot enough. Can you brew a new pot and pour another cup"? "I'd like more lemon muddled in my iced tea". It's always something. I imagine the few of them who are still married heap so many demands on their thoroughly emasculated spouses that their husbands contemplate washing a bottle of Xanax down with a liter of vodka on a daily basis.

I watch them from the bar, glaring at each new customer that walks in. Always miserable.

Later that night I start my period, and feel like throwing a party. Thank fucking G

OMG U R PREGNANT? SO THE FUCK WHAT?!?! - by Baxter

So you're knocked up...who cares?..other than your immediate family. Now you will act like the Queen of All Humanity as you carry around some rotten fetus for the next 9 months, like the rest of the world should be bowing at your feet. Wake the fuck up you stupid slut. Your retarded boyfriend convinced you condoms 'don't feel good' so you let him jizz inside you and now you're preggo and the rest of the world is supposed to automatically give a fuck?! HA!!! Congrats on accomplishing something that hundreds if not thousands of people around the world make happen, DAILY,...even on accident! Way to go! What do you want a gold medal for taking a load up your meat wallet?

We're all supposed to give you red carpet, VIP treatment for taking some frat party creampie?! Your baby is not a miracle, it's a product of your slutty college years that you think makes you feel accomplished in life. Now you can feel even more accomplished by changing diapers and carpooling to soccer practice. Good for you! This does not, however, give you any right to treat everyone else like shit just because your feet hurt and you're craving pickles. Boo mother fucking hoo. You get to get fat and use your 'miracle baby' as an excuse to STAY fat for the rest of your adult life. All the while claiming, 'stay at home mom' as the toughest job in the world. Oh really? Watching Sesame Street and complaining about your screaming spoiled Raptor baby is the 'toughest job in the world'? HAHAHAHAAAHAHAHAA...ok, keep telling yourself that and keep running your Susan B. Komen bullshit breast cancer marathons to make yourselves feel important. Meanwhile heart disease is killing off more people than titty cancer & AIDs combined, you dillusional zombies, so wear all the pink ribbons you want...you're just funding more rich white WASPs ivy league college tuitions for their bratty Disney Princess daughters.