Vagina Monologue

To get the stink of the suburbs off of me (because I apparently work there now) I took an awfully long walk after work tonight.

While hoofing it up Halsted, my shuffle started playing "Fat Bottomed Girls," as if to goad me into walking faster. Stupid shuffle. I skipped ahead to the next song and just tried to suck up the citiness of it all. Traffic, pedestrians, homeless, cops, half-built kajillion dollar single family homes off the Dan Ryan Expressway. Ahhh. Life was good again.

Before I knew it, I was up in my old neighborhood--Little Italy-- and decided to pay my old bosses a visit on Taylor Street. Jeez, Ang, that's quite a walk you're on, they said and I helped myself to some bottled water, grabbed a seat to shoot the breeze, Taylor Street style.

There was lot of "@#$%" and some of "&%$#@!" and then someone said, well, "@#%^@%!!" And then I said, "you ain't kiddin." Before long it was time for me to head home to avoid the whole nightfall and danger lurking around every corner thing.

So off I went.

Heading back down Halsted, I ducked into a 7/11 because I needed some tampons. I walked over to the beyond-over-priced section where they keep the stuff you should get at Target, but you didn't last Friday because apparently you forgot you had a vagina. There I see just about everything--pads, this, that, and the other--but no tampons.

Bold as can be I walked up to the counter. And there they were, safely guarded by the 7/11 guy. These tampons would not be getting into the wrong hands, thanks to the convenience store powers-that-be.

"I'll take a box of regular tampax," I said, unaffected as if I was ordering a latte.

7/11 guy got all spastic and stumbled over to the boxes. Regular tampax?

"Uh, the yellow ones. Yep. . . Them. That's cool."

"That'll be $3.05," he said, not looking me in the eye.

Anyway, that exchange made my day. Or at the very least, my early evening.