Any men who follow this blog may want to skip this next entry. I will be discussing a woman’s Red Tent time. As I am assuming this grosses you out to even ponder briefly, I will understand your not wanting to read the rest of this post. Should you chose to continue reading, however, I will not be held responsible for said grossing-out.
I recently purchased an entire box of defective OB Tampons. Well, in truth it’s not the tampons that are defective. It’s the little plastic wrappers that go around them.
And before we go any further, I know: Ooh, gross! OB’s don’t have applicators! That means you have to put your finger all up in your business! Eeeeewwwww....
I understand these tampons make you squeamish. I’ve had this conversation in many a break room across Corporate America over the years. But trust me on this one, ladies: Ain’t nothin’ getting past that OB Tampon. I’ve used all kinds of tampons in my many years on this planet. We’ve all had to break down and buy one out of a public restroom vending machine (assuming it’s stocked and nobody has stuffed the quarter receptacle thingamabob with gum), or we start our period unawares while at our friend’s party and have to use one of hers. I even worked for a company for a while who supplied us with free tampons. They had a huge box of them in the restroom and they kept it stocked (napkins, too, by the way, though if you could walk around with one of those things between your legs, you must have grown up riding horses). I know, right? Screw the 401k—the tampons were the greatest benefit of that job. I have to admit that I could not justify spending money on OB tampons when I could get “others” for free. For that several-year-stretch, I used an off brand. But I had some extra vodka money. Anyway, OB tampons are the only ones I would trust without wearing a sanitary napkin to catch delightful “surprises”; and really, what is the point of wearing a tampon if you have to wearing the friggin’ 2x4 between your legs anyway?
My position on the lack of an applicator? A) Well, generally, unless I’m peeing behind a tree under dire circumstances or in Spain where they don’t always have sinks at the ready (I don’t even want to think what it means that they don’t always have sinks to go along with their toilets, but let’s just say that I used a LOT of hand sanitizer when I was there) I wash my hands after I use the bathroom anyway. And yes, I used the italics to emphasize my sarcasm, because the sarcasm in this instance is just that potent. This argument, which I have heard, literally, dozens of times over the years, has never made any sense to me. But it should be noted that I’ve never eaten a meal cooked by one of the people who made it. Coincidence? Possibly. Or it could be that I didn’t trust them to always wash their hands when it was called for.
As far as women not wanting to stick their finger all up in their business like that ... well ... I ... uh ... really? I just don't even feel that I need to say anything, here.
Interesting side note: The OB Tampons which do have an applicator? The ones they made for you pussies who can’t bear the thought of an applicator-less tampon and so would rather pollute the planet with millions of needless little cardboard or plastic tubes every month (yes, I am trying to make you feel guilty because my tampon is better than your tampon)? They don’t work as well. Weird. It’s like the applicator sucked out the tampon's mojo or something.
So back to my present problem. Under normal circumstances, you have a cute little tampon encased in plastic with a little strip around the middle. You pull the strip to remove it, which allows you to pop off the bottom piece of plastic so you can grab the string and then remove the top piece of plastic. You now have the tampon between your fingers, having actually touched the business end with your germy fingers barely at all. It’s a genius of engineering.
While trying to open each and every tampon I have used from the box I have now in my bathroom, the little piece of plastic breaks off on itself, after not even having gone halfway around the tampon. This means I cannot easily pop off the bottom piece of plastic and grab the string. I have to try and pry that bottom piece of plastic off, along with the rest of the middle strip, which seems somehow hermetically sealed to the cotton fibers it surrounds. By the time I get that bugger off, stray fibers of tampon cotton have come loose and are now askew, the tampon itself may or may not be bent and I have certainly touched it more than my slightly germophobic self is comfortable with.
But they still work. They’re like the friggin’ Great Wall of China of Tampons. I would say they’re the Great Wall of Tampons, but that really puts me more in the mind of a very large wall, made entirely of tampons. That’s not really what I mean.