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Monday, May 12, 2003

 

O2B1 Dept.



They've beguiled me before.

But the O.B. girls are back. When they're little, boys are taught to fear the intricate, mysterious workings of the female reproductive system (the mammary parts notwithstanding). Whereas once I would be afraid of a commercial explaining the improvements of recent tampon technology, now I'm fascinated. I want to put on a labcoat and take the those two enchanting TV pitchwomen and hang out in the feminine hygiene section in the local drugstore. We would peruse the aisle and they could enlighten me on the relative merits and deficiencies of the various products (of course O.B'.s offerings would triumph in a head-to-head absorb-off), nearly all of which come in boxes with baby-blue and pink scenes of flowers, gardens, or introspective strolls along a twilight beach. We'd buy napkins, tampons, maxi's, mini's by the armload and then go find a beach of our own.

I'd spread down my labcoat gallantly so that the ladies had a place to sit without winding up crusted with the cool, white sand. We'd open all the boxes as eagerly as street urchins when the Christmastime Toys for Tots van pulls up to the shelter. They'd tell me about the bumps in the road on their journeys into womanhood, with each O.B. product providing a jumping-off point for each red-faced episode. We'd laugh and sip some wine. I'd have nothing to offer myself, considering I've never used any of the products in question in the correct health context and due to the fact that I was fully-formed as a slayer of the fairer sex by the age of eleven.

I'd light some candles, out would come the acoustic guitar, and they'd sing songs of burgeoning womanhood.

I wouldn't know where the pillows came from, but I'd take part in the most tender pillow fight possible.

We'd fall asleep on our makeshift blanket, hands clasped, limbs intertwined, open boxes of delicate, feminine mystery all around us.

It wouldn't go any further than that because, you know, it would be that time, and my companions are in sync with the power of the moon above us.

I'd finally understand sisterhood.

The sun would come up and we'd be covered in sand and we wouldn't care.



About this site

This is the internet home of Mark Lisanti, a Los Angeles writer sometimes known as Bunsen. He is the founding editor of Defamer, a weblog about Hollywood, where he now serves in the nebulous capacity of "editor-at-large."
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