The Non-Sponsored, Unaffiliated Lowdown on THINX

Nov 3 2015

Ladies and gentlemen, we’re about to talk about periods and the women who have them, so I’m just saying now, no matter what your junk looks like, if that topic makes you want to harf, get out. GET OUT NOW.



Here we go.thinxad2

I bought THINX.

TWO PAIRS of THINX, y’all, even though they’re, like, $30/pair, and I’ve been using the heck out them.

Have you heard of these?

They’re underwear for women with periods.

As in, you don’t need a tampon or a pad or a cup or any of the usual blood collectors with these ’cause the panties do it all. When Little Miss Red coming a’riding, you just — get this — put on your undies and go.

I know, right? I KNOW.

Weirdest thing EVER. Also, COOLEST. And even though every single girlfriend I tell about these looks at me as if I’ve lost my ever-loving mind — all furrowed brow and pursed lips and head cocked to the side — and even though you may be just like them, thinking, “Really, Beth? Really?” I am here to say, “YES, REALLY.” For REALS, REALLY.

Thing is, I debated for two months about purchasing these things after I found out about them. Two months of “Thirty dollars? GEEZ. I’m not sure I want to risk thirty entire dollars.” ‘Cause what if they don’t work, you know? Or they don’t fit? Or they feel squidgy and damp? So I kept up with my regular routine which includes finding and losing my diva cup, scrounging in my bathroom drawers for the upended dregs of a tampon box, cobbling together off-brand pantyliners into what I hope passes as a full sized pad, and wadding toilet paper into my panties when I’m truly desperate. It’s not pretty, guys. It’s not pretty at all. But it’s what I do. It’s what I’m used to.

Or it’s what I did. What I was used to.

Until the day I had a sort of epiphany.

An epiphany that went like this, “What if I could have my period, put on a pair of undies like I do every other day, and just go?” and “What if it doesn’t have to be like it’s been?” and “What if my daughters could do the same?”

Greg was there when I epiphanied, lucky guy, so he got to hear every profound thought as I thought it. Every ah ha! Every grace-filled, self-actualized insight. It was beautiful, y’all. Deep. “I am going to buy myself Thinx, Greg. And I am going to buy TWO OF THEM. And you know what you’re going to do about that? You’re going to give me ZERO GRIEF, man. ZERO of the GRIEF GIVING even though this will cost us SIXTY DOLLARS. And you know why you’re going to give me zero grief? DO YOU KNOW WHY? Because if you bled from your penis for 25% of your life from age 10 to 55+, you better DAMN WELL BELIEVE you’d have figured out a way to quit shoving blood catchers up there by now. You would have said HELL NO to ramming cotton penis swabs in that thing and trying to pull them out in a bathroom stall and make your way to a faucet without anyone thinking you just reenacted that blood bucket scene from Carrie or slaughtered a small animal. That’s right; MEN wouldn’t have put up with this crap. MEN would’ve DEMANDED another solution. But we women sit passively by and ACCEPT that our lives have to BE LIKE THIS. Well, no more, Greg. NO MORE, I SAY. I’m spending sixty bucks, man, and YOU’RE GOING TO LIKE IT. GO, WOMEN!”

And Greg, because Greg is wise, said, “YES, I AM. I am going to LOVE it,” and he asked me the next day what Thinx are.

Here I am, two periods later, friends, and I have to say, I’m a fan. This “put on panties and go about your day” business? It’s pretty amazing. Pretty incredible. And I highly recommend.




P.S. This post isn’t sponsored by THINX. They don’t know who I am, and I get nothing from telling you about them other than the joy of sharing a good find and freaking some people out by talking about periods. Wheeee!

P.P.S. All photos included in this post are the property of THINX and are used without permission. I didn’t ask before I lifted them from the internets. I’m sort of just banking on the THINX people being cool with free advertising of their product. If they let me know I’m wrong, I’ll remove the images. I’ll think they’re a little less cool, but I’ll remove them.

P.P.P.S. THINX is also doing cool things for girls in Africa. Rad, I tell you. These things are rad.

P.P.P.P.S. You can find out more about THINX here.

P.P.P.P.P.S. If you have any questions — any at all — let me know and I will answer.

I Feel Stupid at Night. Also Other Times.

Oct 29 2015

I feel stupid at night.

Also, sometimes in the morning.

Also-also, when driving in the car, especially alone.

And sitting on the potty.

And standing in line at the supermarket sans kids.

Pretty much every time I have a chance to stop and think, I feel stupid, and I replay my every fault, real or imagined, on repeat.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I say to me, and, “I CANNOT BELIEVE YOU SAID THAT.” Or DID that. Or WORE that. Or ARE that.

If my brain was a friend of mine — in a separate body and not, you know, in charge of my bodily functions and keeping me semi-upright throughout the day — I’ve have ditched her a while ago as generally toxic and, well, mean. Not to mention the fact that she requires a truly ridiculous amount of caffeine and sometimes makes questionable decisions like spending lots of money on fancy cheese. Unfortunately, my brain sits inside me and so we must navigate these cruelties together and work toward what my father calls a better way, which was infuriating when he was teaching me to load the dishwasher, but is important when considering my relationship with my brain.

The problem with my brain, really, is that she can’t make up her mind. She’s wishy-washy and relentlessly inconsistent.

I feel stupid at night, for example.

But I feel smart during the day.

At least sometimes.

Smart and strong.

Smart and strong and like I CAN CONQUER THE WORLD. Smart and strong like I CAN OVERCOME. Smart and strong like IT DOES NOT EVEN MATTER that I dropped pineapple down my shirt or my dress flew open or I pooped my closet or I, once again, chose that particular granny-panties/slim-skirt combo that cuts my tummy fluff in half exactly so I display two wholly separate tummies on the front of me because two tummies is better than one, friends, and put your best tummy forward. No; sometimes, I feel smart and strong, as though pineapple-scented breasts and public nudity and tummy fluff are irrelevant and don’t define my worth as a person. THAT smart and strong, you guys. THAT smart and strong. And like it’s OK to be me, which is the same thing as being free.

My friend, Webb, wrote me this week in response to an epic missive on my part. I was vacation planning ahead of his wife’s birthday next week and was maybe a tiny bit detailed and a touch leadershippy (as opposed to “bossy” which I totally wasn’t), and a tad overwhelming with the sheer volume of information my brain unleased. Webb wrote back only, “I love the way your mind works: sometimes it’s like a precision-crafted, jewel-movement Swiss watch, and other times it’s like a dumpster fire,” and I thought, “YES. Oh my gosh — YES. Yes, this EXACTLY. This is how I feel about my brain, too!”

So in case, friends, you have a brain that makes you feel stupid, and smart and strong, and also stupid in such rapid succession you can’t quite keep up with its shenanigans — in case, well, your mind is like a precision-crafted, jewel-movement Swiss watch, and other times it’s all, “DUMPSTER FIRE!” and “WHO BROUGHT THE LIGHTER FLUID?” — I want you to know you’re not alone. You’re not alone. And you’re not stupid. And you’re not alone.

Sending love,


A Quick, Butt Important Question. In Addition to This One… Guess What’s Better Than Pants?

Oct 27 2015


I have a quick question for you.

Guess what’s better than pants?

That’s not the question, though. That’s a lead-up to the real question, which is coming. It’s like a prelude to the question. An appetizer question. The processional question as we prepare for the grand entrance of the real question; like the flowergirl of questions, all cute and tiny, toddling down the aisle and lifting her fluffy, tulle dress over her eyes so we see her princess panties while all the guests giggle and her mommy stage whispers Put. Your. Dress. Down.

Still, it’s important so that we set the stage, so I ask you again…

Guess what’s better than pants?

Guess what’s better than pants, friends?

Nope; it’s not yoga pants. Those are still pants.

Nope; not leggings. Uh uh. Those are still sorta pants. Pants-ish, if you will.

You know what’s better than pants, though?

Like, seriously better than pants?

No Pants.

No Pants is what.

I mean, clearly the answer is No Pants.

We all know that, right?

No Pants is superior to Pants.

It was practically a rhetorical question. The answer so obvious it doesn’t require a response.

It’s just that my friend, Melissa Anne, told me she needs new pants because we’re going to Disneyland next week to celebrate a Big Birthday.

“I need new pants,” she wrote. “I have no comfy pants.”

FullSizeRender (4)

I suggested, therefore, No Pants. Which I have in writing. Which is important as we prepare for The Real Question I Have.

I suggested No Pants; see?

FullSizeRender (2)


In writing.


And then. Then. Just a few days later, I saw this:

FullSizeRender (9)

This mannequin with No Pants.

Listen. Listen, friends. I don’t want to go all Conspiracy Theory or Big Brother on y’all. And I realize — I do — that I am not the first person to invent No Pants.

It’s just…

FullSizeRender (1)


…I obviously had copyrighted No Pants (in writing — IN WRITING), and then this guy started sporting No Pants.

Which brings me to my question.

My important question.

Because I live in America.

Should I sue that mannequin for copyright infringement?

I mean, I undoubtedly stood to make loads of money on all the people who bought No Pants from me, but now this guy is trying to edge out my market share.

Please advise.






P.S. I realize this could, possibly be a situation like when Isaac Newton and Gottfried Leibniz simultaneously invented calculus in the 17th century. I mean, genius can strike at exactly the same time, so I suppose that mannequin and I could’ve discovered No Pants concurrently. But what are the odds? And did Newton or Leibniz think to have time- and date-stamped proof of invention? NO. Because they didn’t plan ahead like yours truly. So who’s the smarty pants now?

P.P.S. ^^^ That P.S. was me blatantly trying to get into my husband’s pants, and has nothing to do with this post. Drop some historical calculus knowledge?? Sure fire way in, folks! On the other hand, if Greg would just take up the No Pants trend, I wouldn’t have to work so hard. Something to think about, Greg.


Why Science is Bad for Children

Oct 26 2015

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT.”

That was my 3rd grader, friends, this morning at the front door, prostrate on the threadbare entry rug that desperately needs replacing but won’t get it anytime soon.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT.”

That was my 3rd grader after the dogs, bless their hearts, knocked him into the wall while rushing past him playing their usual morning games of Bark, Bark, Growl and Bite, Bite, Chase.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT, SHIT.”

That was my 3rd grader this morning, face down, rocking slightly, and expressing the heck out of himself, which we tend to encourage at our house, but I am a GOOD mama and a CHRISTIAN, damn it, so I told him to “knock it off, man” and, “we do not talk like that around here,” which was a lie, but also, “there’s no reason for language like that,” which I figured was true and therefore canceled the lying portion of my response.

“But I am HURT,” he said, and followed that with, “SHIT, MOM,” for emphasis, and also because he’s a punk.

“Still,” I said with Stern Face, “that’s no excuse.” And for once he didn’t say, “But you say it, Mom,” or, “But I learned it from watching you!”

Nope. He didn’t say any of those things.

Instead, he rolled over, looked me in the eye, and said, “SCIENCE, Mom. This is called SCIENCE. It has been scientifically proven that swearing helps with pain. SCIENTIFICALLY PROVEN. Watch, Mom. Watch this. … … SHiiiiiiiiiiiiT! … … ” and then he sighed with satisfaction and grinned. “You know what, Mom? You know what? I feel totally better. I am HEALED because of SCIENCE.”

And he popped up off that floor and strolled away, every ounce of his 9-year-old body shaking with laughter.

In conclusion, my child is a butt.

Also, science should be banned.

Sincerely yours,


When You’re Better At Stuff Than Your Kids

Oct 25 2015

It’s hard sometimes being a mama and being, well, better at stuff than your kids. You know? Like, they want to be good at stuff right now, and you don’t want to discourage them, and they say stuff like, “I’m a really good draw-er, right, Mom? As good as you, right?” with their earnest scribbles, and, “I can match my clothes really good, Mom,” with the fuschia socks and the gold shirt and the green plaid skirt, and you can see they’re trying — they’re trying so hard — and they suddenly care about proficiency, and you don’t want to squash that initiative, so you LIE and say stuff back like, “Sure you are,” and, “You’re SO GOOD at that, sweetheart.”

Well, I recently took my oldest on a trip. My oldest who is 17 and a senior in high school and about to abandon me for college, so I’m taking any excuse I can find to force Quality Time upon her.


We landed at the beach.


And bless her heart — bless her heart, you guys — but she’s still trying SO HARD on that whole proficiency thing.

The child thinks she’s a dancer.


She thinks she’s got moves.



And, ultimately, she wants what I think all of us want, which is to be someday as proficient as our mommies and daddies are at life; that natural comparison of child to parent.

I didn’t want to discourage her, but I also felt like at 17 she’s old enough to understand she’s not good at everything yet, you know? Like at 17, she’s ready for some of life’s harsher truths.

So we did a dance off.

We posed it out.

And, although it’s difficult in some of these to tell us apart, which means she’s almost as proficient as me, if you look closely at Abby (on the left) and me (on the right), you can see she still has some work to do, like in this one:


And this one:


And this one:



In conclusion, Abby has some work to do.

Also, we can pray for her.

With love,







Just Thought You Should Know

Oct 18 2015

I hollered downstairs yesterday for a kid to put toilet paper in the bathroom AND put it on the dispenser roll.


And one of them modeled my behavior by gently bellowing back, “WHY? ARE WE HAVING COMPANY OR SOMETHING?”

Which is ridiculous. The fact that my children think we only put toilet paper in the bathroom and put it on the thingy if we’re having company. Goll!

Who is raising these children, anyway? Who is in charge of this mess?

Can you join me in a collective, longsuffering eyeroll, please? PLEASE? Because I NEED YOU, momrades, in this, the strange life I lead.

That is all, friends.

That is all.





P.S. I should probably mention we were having company over and that is the reason I told them to put the paper on the roll.

P.P.S. Someone hold me.


On Momrades and Waving in the Dark: A Birthday Wish

Oct 13 2015

It’s my birthday, friends.

I’m 42 today.


My family has responded by a) mocking me, and b) giving me cheese, which are my two main love languages, so I’m marking this birthday in the win column.

This is my favorite of all the cards from my kids:

It reads,

happy birthday
mom I love you
so much and the
things you you do
for us.

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And then it has drawings of all the things I do for them, along with me complaining about doing them, which is apparently how I do All the Things. While whining. Like a whining whiner who whines. Just to make sure I was interpreting my card, correctly, I asked my kid to demonstrate these things for me, so he schlumped his shoulders in defeat, fixed his face with a scowl and said, “UUUUuuuugghhhhh. THE THINGS I DO FOR THIS FAMILY.” So yep. Yep, I was. I was interpreting it pretty darn accurately.

You know what this means, right?


Not only that, but they know how I feel about All the Things. Deep in my heart. Because I ACTUALLY, LITERALLY FEEL LIKE THIS LADY when I pick up my family’s crap:

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Do you see her? DO you? She is bent in HALF, folks. She looks like she is going to BREAK. I feel like this EVERY DAY.

This card and its free Mommy mocking makes my heart happy.

It’s really all the birthday I need.

It’s really all the birthday I need, but I’m going to ask you for something anyway, momrades, and I think you’ll understand.

See, I’m not the only one who turned 42 this week.

Our momrade, Dominique, turned 42 this week, too.

Perfectly imperfect

I met Dom through this blog, and those of you who’ve been here a while, hanging out in this space, may remember her from her honorable mention entry in our Parenting and Imperfection writing contest last year and her story about the facade of a “perfect marriage,” why she walked away, and what it means to raise kids to embrace authenticity, too.

Headshot.pngWell, here’s the deal. On Saturday, September 19, Dominique was having some issues with her memory. By Wednesday, September 23, she was undergoing an all night brain surgery.

Four days, friends; four days is the time Dom, a single mama of two, had from suspecting something might be wrong to being diagnosed with Grade 4 Glioblastoma, an aggressive brain tumor, and now she’s in the fight of her life.

I don’t even know what to say about that, friends. I don’t understand a world where this happens, even as I’m grateful Dom lives in a place where she has access to healthcare and is surrounded by friends and family who undergo the fight with her. But I did think you’d want to know.

I did think you’d want to know so you can wave in the dark to Dominique with me. For my birthday. For hers. For mamaraderie and community and ComeUnity and because you’re our Village.

Other than cheese and mockery (obviously), I can’t imagine anything I’d like more for my birthday than for us to come together for our momrade in need. Would you join me in waving in the dark to Dominique? You can leave her a note in the comments below or, of course, make a small (or large) donation the GoFundMe site to help with her recovery expenses; we all know the compounded power of working together to share not just resources, but Love.

Sending that Love to each and every one of you, and waving in the dark with the belief that the dawn is coming,





P.S. If you do make a donation to Dom’s GoFundMe page, will you add in your note something along the lines of “waving” or “waving in the dark” or “praying for you, momrade” or something so we can see that you’re there from this Village? I would adore that.