Shots Across The Bow

A Single Father's Dilemma

Guys, we've gotta talk.

There comes a time in every man's life when he has to face one of the biggest tests of his masculinity:

Buying feminine hygiene products.

My buddy at work says I must be dying for attention (Duh! I'm a blogger!) to bring this up, but I must, because we all know that sooner or later, whether it be for sister, girlfriend, wife, or daughter, we'll end up skulking furtively through that aisle, and shamefacedly handing our selection to the girl at the checkout counter. My first trial came at the tender age of 16, when my sister begged me to go to the store to buy her some "thingies." Mom and Dad were out of town, I had a driver's license, and she was in desperate need, so there I stood in the mini-mart, trying to work up the nerve to make my purchase. It was worse than the first time I tried to buy a Playboy. (Interesting side story. I wasn't real sneaky back then, and bought the magazine at the corner gas station, the same place where I was trying to work up the nerve to buy the "thingies" as a matter of fact. My dad was great friends with all the clerks who worked there, so I'm sure he knew all about my illicit purchase within 5 minutes of my leaving the store.)

I wandered the aisles of that little store for 45 minutes, carefully examining the dates on the dog food cans, to make sure they were fresh. I checked out the wide variety of canned vegetables, perused the offerings in the drink cooler, looked at all the leaflets designed to separate tourons (tourist + moron = touron) from their money as efficiently as possible, examined the floor to insure that it had been adequately swept, mopped and polished, all the while steeling myself to take the plunge. Finally, I screwed up my courage, dashed down the aisle, grabbed a mint green package of "thingies" and headed for the checkout counter.

The lady behind the counter took pity on me as I stood there with my head tucked low, trying to hide my face, and didn't try to engage in small talk, just took my money, put the "thingies" in a brown paper bag, and handed me my change.

Of course today, as a single father with three daughters, humiliation has aged into quiet resignation. I think nothing of running into the grocery store, wheeling my cart down "The Aisle," and grabbing a bag of pads, or a smaller box of tampons. But while the embarrassment has faded, it's been replaced with confusion.

Back when I made my "thingie" run, there were pads. Period. (Pun unintentional) The only decision to make was brand and quantity. Today, it's a whole new ballgame. Pads have wings, flaps, ridges, velcro, elastic, adhesive patches, and "moisture pockets." They come in unscented or scented, with a variety of smells with names like "summer breeze," "citrus blend," and "country morning." That last frightens me, because I always associated country mornings with breakfast, and somehow the aroma of eggs bacon and coffee just doesn't seem to me to be an appropriate scent for a feminine hygiene product. Then there are the sizes: Plus, maxi, super maxi, super plus maxi, and petite super maxi plus; it never ends. What happened to good old "medium?"

And, lest we forget, there's the wonderful world of tampons, which also come in a variety of sizes, shapes, scents and applicators. I can't figure out when these things became fashion accesories, but it is clear they have.

And you can't count on the commercials for help either, even though it seems the airwaves are saturated with them. It's nothing to see feminine hygiene products advertised during a football game. Heck, I'm waiting for Tampax to sponsor a Winston Cup car. Imagine going to the winners circle:

ANN: I'm here in the Winners Circle with Jeff Gordon, winner of today's race. Jeff, how was it out there?
JG: Well, traffic was flowing pretty heavy out there today, and I got caught up in a couple of tight squeezes in turn 2, but the Tampax Super Maxi Tampon Chevy kept me in the clear. Once in position, we were able to keep the rest of the traffic bottled up behind us, and bring home the win.

Eeriely plausible, don't you think?

I ran into a different sort of advertising the last time I bought tampons. You know how when you check out, the litle machine prints up coupons based on what you buy? Well, all I bought was the tampons, but I got 2 coupons: one was for more tampons, and the other was for Hershey's Chocolate Kisses.

And they say marketing isn't a science...

Regular TV ads are bad enough, but have you ever watched daytime television? I've learned more than I care to know about the female anatomy, and the various troubles inherent in having the plumbing on the inside, instead of the outside. "Vaginal suppository" is a phrase that should not be heard on television, except maybe for late at night on the Jerry Springer show, and even then it should probably be bleeped.

I saw a commercial a little while back for a "Extra Strength" douche. Now, isn't that a scary thought?

Dow Chemical is proud to present "New and Improved Heavy Duty Douche. Now with scrubbing bubbles for that squeaky clean feeling!"

Another problem with these douche commercials: the ladies are always pulling these bottles out of the kitchen cabinet, never the bathroom where they belong. First of all, I'm not going to get into a conversation with my buddy over jock itch, and even if I do, I'm not whipping a tube of Cruex out of the snack cabinet and waving it around like it's Cheez Whiz.

Ain't gonna happen.

But in these commercials, Sally and Jane are sitting in the kitchen talking about having that "fresh, clean feeling" whenever they want, and Sally always reaches up into the kitchen cabinet to grab a bottle of Summer's Eve. I knew something funny was going on, so I checked the label on a bottle one day while I was shopping for tampons (It takes a man very confident in his masculinity to say that with a straight face), and brothers, I found the answer.

Add some olive oil and you've got salad dressing!

We now know more about the Hidden Valley than we ever wanted to.

Posted by Rich at June 9, 2003 3:40 PM | TrackBack