Murder, She Tampon

*I began this blog last week, while sitting across the table from My Dad, who found it equal parts funny and uncomfortable. Here’s to hoping you’ll find it the same. 

It is Tuesday. My brain is tired.

Also, I am thirty-six episodes into Murder, She Wrote on Netflix and I have decided that I want to move to Cabot Cove, Maine and write old-fashioned murder mysteries on a typewriter while making goo-goo eyes at the town doctor, who practices in his living room. The 1980s were a magical time that the youth of today simply will never understand.

At work today (I do, unfortunately, have to leave the house and punch a time card, rather than luxuriate at my computer, watching stacks of dollar bills pile up, like Beyonce), something horrible happened. Well, it wasn’t actually TODAY, it was YESTERDAY, but it’s taken a while for the shock to wear off – the shock of the crime, I mean. You see, someone stole from me. Someone stole private, incredibly meaningful, necessary objects from me. And I am pissed.

Let me back up for a second.

In April/May/June of 1995, I became a woman.

Now, I don’t mean that in the flowery sense, either, where I fell in love with literature and decided to write poems and wear corsets while entertaining the notion of being courted or when I silently began to understand that my place was at home by the hearth with the chillun. I mean it in the strictly flowering sense. As in, I got my first period.

Fast forward approximately two hundred and fifty-two periods later, give or take, and we’re at Monday, September 12, 2016 and I am on my merry way to the faculty bathroom to change my tampon. It is an unavoidable evil that is not easy to conceal, necessarily, if I’m not wearing pants with pockets, and really, I would rather spend my days wearing clothes with an elastic waist, if you catch my drift. Enter: Tampon Safe. 

Okay, it’s really just a locky boxy thing that someone gave my daughter a million years ago. It’s white, it’s made of metal, and it has her upside-down monogram printed on the side. Like, if you hold it by the handle, the monogram is upside-down.

For once, the women’s restroom (we have a men’s and women’s, even though are .2 men in my building and about 783,496 women) has no line. I thank Buddha and God and rush in. I pull my leggings down, grab the Tampon Safe and-

My last Ultra Tampon is gone. My last Ultra Tampon THAT WAS JUST THERE TWO HOURS BEFORE WHEN I CHECKED TO MAKE SURE I HAD ANOTHER ONE is gone. Evaporated. Absent. Dust.

It’s okay. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking two things:

  1. They make Ultra Tampons? I know. I’m just as stoked. I just found them, and they were part of those weird multi-boxes, so I’ve had to ration them out. I love them.
  2. What kind of an animal steals a tampon from a Tampon Safe that is clearly emblazoned with someone else’s kid’s upside-down monogram? Friends, I wish I knew.

I had pads available. It wasn’t a question of losing all coverage. BUT STILL.

Angrily – and I do mean ANGRILY – I handle my lady biz and stalk out of the bathroom, contemplating the volume of nerve that it would take in order for a woman to rifle through my private, sanitary possessions and filch what was clearly the last one of A SPECIFIC TYPE PF TAMPON. This is staggering to me. Steal my money. Please. Steal my copier number, but my tampons? MY LAST FUCKING ULTRA TAMPON! I mean, you had to know it was the last one, and you clearly didn’t want a pad, either, because you bypassed all of those, so why would you stiff me with one? You ungrateful, unprepared bitch.

I think the following things:

a. I need to break out my black-ops clothes and sit in that decorative plant in the corner and wait this woman out. That one tampon is probably good until 2/2:3ish. I’ve got time to spare.

b. I need to make a firm list of any woman on my hallway who could be the culprit.

If I’m scaring you, you don’t value your period comfort level. What kind of a troll puts her hands in another woman’s Tampon Safe without express written permission?


Knocking B off is no problem. I literally go door to door (as in, I can provide you with witnesses who were questioned) and ascertain whether or not each woman is on her Lady Time. I lead with, “Hey, girl, lemme ask you a quick question.” Hell, I even interrogate the men. I don’t know what to believe anymore. People in my department now know more about this Ultra tampon than they do all of my novels combined and the 2016 Presidential election, and we can’t hide from that shit.

I write a list of suspects. I begin collecting evidence.

(At this point, my father interjects, “Please tell me what evidence you’ve collected. I am appalled” and I am forced to rethink my plan, putting this post on hold. No worries, though. It gets better.)


A little time away from the murder mystery of my Ultra tampon and I have a new plan. I have THIS plan…



That’s right. Your girl bought a glitter bomb, and it should be arriving any day now. I’ma slap “Super Secret Tampon Box” on the side with a black sharpie and lie in wait.



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