Sometimes When I'm Menstrual I Surf The Internet Looking For Stuff That Makes Me Feel Better About Myself

Yesterday I took my friend Anne out to a birthday lunch during which we discovered that we are on the same cycle. No, not bicycle or unicycle (although I would totally ride either of those things with her.) Menstrual cycle. I am pretty sure that this is absolute scientific proof that we are bestest friends. In case you don't have vast amounts of knowledge about menstrual stuff,  women who spend lots of time together get synchronized. What this means is that we are like twins, insofar that our bad moods, bloating, break-outs, sensitivity to Hallmark commercials, cramps, and cravings for junk food and Advil PM are exactly the same. I am not sure of the exact reason that nature does this, but if I had to guess I would say that it's because when we are at our worst (looks-wise and mood-wise) the last thing we need in our orbit is a friend who is perky and pretty. Nature is smart enough to know that if that were the case there would be so many more PMS-related murders going down at any given time.  It's probably all about Evolution. I betcha that in the olden days, especially before there was Midol, Clearasil, Reeses Peanut Butter Cups and Tampax, there were probably tons of girls offing their friends because one was bloated and pimply (murderer) and the other was thin and beautiful (murderee). It makes complete sense.

Today I look like I'm about 5 months pregnant. I have a pimple on my nose that makes it look like my nose is growing another - even larger - nose. My skin is oily. I have cramps. I feel like cussing somebody out and then crying about it. And I baked Toll House cookies today and ate 6 of them. In about 2 minutes. That's 20 seconds per cookie. Well, actually it's about 30 seconds per cookie since I stacked the last two cookies into one giant, mega-cookie. And I am so stupid and period-ridden that I had to use a calculator to tell me those numbers. Things are not good in the Ford house.

On the bright side, since all I've been doing is laying around feeling sorry for myself, I have had plenty of free time to cruise the internet and find things that disturb and confuse me. Enjoy!

This is a photo of a Blob Fish. I don't know what to say other than it looks like WC Fields after a long night of drinking and making out with prostitutes who squirted lube all over his head. It has no muscles and is completely gelatinous. It is a lazy asshole who just floats stationary and waits for food to pretty much swim into its mouth. Actually, this is kinda what I feel like I look like this week, but at least I baked my own cookies and didn't just sit on the couch waiting for someone to shove some into my mouth for me. Also, I have had no alcohol or lubey encounters with hookers (but it's still early so I won't entirely rule it out).

This looks like a giant stuffed shark who maybe saw "Pinocchio" and wished upon a star just like him and became a real shark and ate it's unsuspecting owner, which would totally suck balls because there you are just hanging out and snuggling with the giant stuffed animal your grandparents gave you for your birthday, when all of a sudden it comes alive and decides to eat your plush loving ass. Unfortunately, that is not what happened. What happened is that some weirdo decided that your child might want a sleeping bag that gives them a heart attack because when they woke up in the middle of the night they had forgotten that they fell asleep inside the mouth of a giant shark. I really hope it's machine washable because I give this sleeping bag approximately 6 hours before it gets peed in and/or puked on by a freaked out kid.

No. This is not a crime scene photo. Not unless the crime is spending $40.00 on a "Blood Spill Pillow."  I am not entirely sure what the purpose of this pillow is, other than to ensure that your nap gets totally ruined by police and emergency medical personnel. I don't know about you, but when I settle in for a nice siesta I prefer to not be awakened by someone attacking me with those difibrillator paddle things, or trying to give me an autopsy. It just kinda ruins the whole relaxation point of the nap.

Ok. Brace yourselves people. These are Under-Ease underwear, which are an underwear made especially for people who have flatulence problems. That means farts you guys. The website says they are made from air-tight polyurethane-coated nylon. Polyurethane is what you paint on furniture for durability, so...comfy. The site also says that these sexy undies have a "triangular exit hole" through which the fart is expelled after passing through a replaceable filter which is made from (get this) 2 layers of wool felt, 2 layers of non-woven polypropylene and spun glass, with a center of deactivated carbon. Did I just say "spun glass?"  Yes. Yes, I think I did. So at this point I have, like, a hundred questions. But my main inquiry is this: Just how bad does your gas have to be to cause you to find it necessary to wear big honking, air-tight, rubber granny panties with a pile of spun glass and carbon on your butt? Maybe instead of $30.00 glass-ass underwear, you should go visit your Doctor. Pronto.