My sister-in-law Gloriosa is one of those parents that insists on teaching her kids the absolute proper medical name for each of their little body parts.
Except one.
You know what that is.
Their heads. They call them their coconuts.
But like I said, everything else is as proper as a medical dictionary.
Now, some people object to this policy.
Like the time, years ago, when her oldest boy was little, and Gloriosa’s mother-in-law, Ms. Sarcophaga, babysat him for the night. She gave him his bath, and the next morning, she told Gloriosa, “For goodness’ sake, teach the child the proper name for his…”
“Penis?” asks Gloriosa. “That’s what I taught him.”
“No!” says Ms. Sarcophagus, making herself stand tall, “the PROPER name.”
“What is that?”
She whispers it, “Dickie-doodle.”
Well, you never know what’s proper unless somebody tells you.
Now I am going to change the subject.
I got to warn all you gentlemen New Orleans Magazine readers. The next thing I am going to write is not for you. Just quietly turn the page.
OK, nobody here but us ladies now.
So, Gloriosa has to lead a discussion at her kids’ school’s first PTA meeting of the year. She’s supposed to talk with the parents about shopping for the school supplies they got to buy for their kids to lose this year. Do the parents think it’s better to just get it over with and order them from a big school supply center that delivers them? Or maybe save money and trek all over Walmart and Office Depot and some dollar store with a long list and a couple of whiny kids who want to know why Ms. Probst’s supply list specifies blue plastic folders instead of red.
So she herself trekked through the stores and also Googled these big school supply stores that pack every weird thing the teachers want “green-lined composition books— three holes, blue…” and send them out in a cardboard box that the cat will eventually claim.
So she is ready to present the advantages of each method.
The day of her presentation, she gets herself dressed presentable and arrives there early.
(By now, the gentleman readership has got bored and actually turned the page like I told them to. Don’t YOU turn the page. Now the story gets good.)
Gloriosa’s sister —my other sister-in-law, Larva — is also there because her youngest child is in the same school. She waves to Gloriosa.
Who is just realizing she got a problem. Under her slacks, she is wearing panties (of course) and she put a pantyliner in there for hygienic reasons. This is a new brand of pantyliner she never heard of before. The box says it is plastic-free, naturally scented and completely biodegradable. Sounds perfect.
What it don’t say is that, after a few minutes of physical contact with it, some ladies feels a definite burning sensation. Like Wow! Oooh! WHAT?
She sits and squirms for a few minutes. Then she spots her big sister Larva, and speed-minces over to her.
She says “Oh my God! I got these new all-natural pantyliners and…” Before she can finish, Larva says, “I know what the problem is. I can tell by the way you’re walking. I bought them too, a while back.”
“Crotch fire,” Gloriosa mumbles in a husky voice.
Well, would you believe, Larva reaches into her enormous purse and fishes out a normal non-assaulting regular brand pantyliner— one which ain’t biodegradable but got no sizzle. And Gloriosa thankfully grabs it and slinks off to the bathrooms.
“It was a sisterly moment,” Larva told me later. “Saving her like that.”
“Especially considering I was humiliated and violated,” Gloriosa said. “She rescued me.”
Larva said she had been at home alone when the same thing happened to her. “I had to dash into the bedroom and sit in an unladylike position in front of a box fan for 10 minutes” Larva said.
“I heard enough,” I said.
It’s a good thing those pantiliners are plastic-free. Almost-unused boxes of them are probably filling up landfills all over the country.
