Rednecks and My Menses

Two great tastes that do NOT taste great together. Fortunately, I was already home before I really started bleeding, or there'd be a coupla dead rednecks in Roseburg.

Last week was what it was, but at least I came away from the adventure with four cow skulls, and I only got called "bitch" about a dozen times. Here's the thing: unlike me, Coworker grew up in a stable, loving household with people with whom she is very close and enjoys spending time. Ergo, she finds rednecks fascinating and sexy, whereas I'm happy I don't still have to live with them or let them raise me. Fucking ig'nunt boys from Roseburg is her adorable version of "slumming". Anyway, while we were down there we hung out with one of her friends-with-bennies, Jerry (can you believe his name is Jerry? That is SO on the nose!), who is the fag-hatin'est, Bush-votin'est, hard-working-'cuz-his-alcoholic-daddy-may-have-beat-him-
but-taught-him-the-value-of-a-dollarest good ol' boy you could imagine. For hating fags so much, he was actually one of the biggest divas I've ever met - the man would not stop talking about himself and his awesomeness.

Anyway, yeah we (and the other two rednecks he brought with him) got into it a bit about "where we came from" (yes, THAT old debate). Coworker, the mediator, kept trying to change the subject, but dudes like him are so much like my dad that it was like taking candy from a fucking baby. I've had this argument so many times that I could do it in my sleep. However, I did let them get the best of me when, in my shock at their audacity/stupidity, finally shouted "You are so fucking ignorant!" That, in my honest opinion, was when I lost that fight. They don't know that they're stupid, and certainly can't help it. It was a fool's battle indeed, and besides, one must never engage in a battle of wits with an unarmed man. Besides, I already knew I was the victor when I had them hiding in their hats at the bar after I told my litany of filthy pedophilia jokes (Q: What's the best thing about getting a hand job from a five year-old? A: Your dick looks huge in the Polaroids). Anyhoo, I did win a loogie-hocking contest with Jerry, and that really skeeved him good. And I was told (complimented?) that I belch like a man. I am woman, hear me roar.

Oh, and my cooter is still bleeding, after like ten days or something. The thing is, I don't menstruate. It's one of the delights of being on birth control: I have a wee bit of spotting every three months, when my shot's due. But never an actual period. Every once in awhile, though, my uterus, having evidently stored up years' worth of periods, decides to just open the fucking floodgates. "Wheee!" my uterus says. "How ya like me now?" I'm cruising through tampons every three hours. Today I had to take a dump and squished my tampon out by accident whilst attempting to nudge the poo along. It did not make me feel in alignment with the tides and the moon.

Next week it's back to Dufur and Mt. Vernon to finish up the plant surveys, then I'm home for a day (enough time to get my fucking birth control shot and stop this nonsense), then I'm off to Klamath Falls to start 6 straight days of hacking through brush in search of the elusive desert wetland. Yay (psyche).