I lived with my cousin Ryan for a lot of years, and one of the things about him was that he didn't have a ton of experience living with women. Take for example the time that he gave me the silent treatment for about a week. I couldn't take it anymore, and so finally I asked him, "What the heck is going on with you?" And he blurted out, "I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU WOULD PUT A BLOODY PAD IN THE GARBAGE!!" I was like, "what are you TALKING about?!" (I don't even use pads.) And then after much consideration, I realized that it was because he mistook the cotton ball I used to remove my red nail polish and then threw in the bathroom garbage for a discarded bloody pad.
I had to explain to him, that seriously, first of all: actual bloody period pads are not 2 1/2" in diameter, circular-shaped items. Secondly they do not have a tiny smidge of bright red on them. (In actuality, the red doesn't stay bright red, it turns gross brown immediately.) Secondly, if I'm making chore charts to ensure that the carpet is getting vacuumed regularly, and washer-and-dryer are being wiped down twice monthly, I'm just not a likely candidate for someone who would leave a bloody pad, face-up in the garbage for all to see.
Perhaps I should have used a huge piece of note-paper, as Ryan did one morning to notify me of a special present he had left behind:
"Dearest Cousin Kady, Beneath this lid you will find a log of gigantic proportions. If you do not wish to view this atrocity, please flush and go about your normal day."
|Me and Cousin Ryan. So innocent before the pad conversation.|