Obligation and Menstruation: Social Responsibility or Too Taboo?

Fish Rap Live!
Volume 18, Issue 8

Introduction: When I first hit puberty, I couldn’t quite pull myself together. I was that girl in middle school that never remembered to change her tampon until it was hours too late; I was the girl sentenced to wearing her P.E. shorts the rest of the day when she discovered her leak at lunch.

My good friend Tessah told me that her very first memory of me is when I walked to the front of Mrs. Mayer’s seventh grade science class to turn in a quiz. When my back was turned to the class, Tessah noticed a huge blood stain on the back of my shorts (science class was right before lunch, so this was about the time my stain size would have been at its apex). Instead of telling me, Tessah giggled to herself and let me go about my day.

Now that I’m 20, I’ve gotten a handle on my menstrual leaks with the help of birth control and adult-sized tampons. However, accidents still happen, and I wonder if anyone today would tell me if I had period blood all over my butt.

Process: I will go the Capitola mall wearing jeans stained on the butt with raspberries, coffee grounds, and a little bit of ketchup. I will then make notes of who notices and if they say anything.

Hypothesis: Tessah says that if she wasn’t an awkward seventh grader when she first saw me that she would have slid me a tampon and told me to go to the restroom. I believe her, and I predict all women today will do something in a similar fashion. On the contrary, I predict that men won’t say anything for one of two reasons: either they won’t notice or they’ll be too embarrassed to say anything because periods are something they just don’t get (see Venn diagram).

Results: I make my entrance in the Sears automotive department. I was in this department buying a new battery for my car the day before, and I see the woman who helped me. I sashay in front of her and she gives me a funny look. Thinking that she probably didn’t notice my pants, I bend over to examine hubcaps, sticking my butt out in her direction. After giving a few good wiggles, I turn around to find the woman looking directly at me. She blushes instantly and quickly walks away from me. I follow her to the other side of the store. When she sees me, she walks through the employees-only door. I wait, under the assumption she’s going to get me a tampon from her purse, but five minutes go by and she doesn’t come back out.

Irritated, I decide to leave Sears. As I’m making my way through kitchenware, I hear someone yell behind me: “Hey girl, I think you’re on the rag!” I turn around and find a group of teenage boys standing five feet from me. Was yelling really necessary? All the same, I gasp in mock horror, cover my face with my hands, and run away sobbing. The boys erupt with laughter when I crash into a blender display because I can’t see where I’m going.

In the main part of the mall, I stop walking to spin around every few yards so mall patrons can get a good look at my butt. I bend over to pick change up off the ground or inspect my shoes or smell the fake flowers – anything to get people to notice my butt. People stare, but no one says anything.

I twirl my way into the Gap. I am the only customer, so the salespeople have to pay attention to me. Sure enough, a salesgirl approaches me and immediately tells me that the Gap has a great selection of jeans.

“Yeah, but I like my jeans. Don’t you?” I turn in front of her like I’m at the end of a catwalk, purposefully pausing when my butt faces her.

“Yeah, but everyone needs new jeans! You should really try some on. Like, you should really go get some jeans and go to the dressing room so you can see yourself in the mirror. Really.”

I refuse. I want her to explicitly tell me that I have period blood on the back of my pants. Instead of being blunt, the salesgirl gets extremely flustered and then increasingly adamant that I go to the dressing room. She starts to stress me out, so I leave. Not to be defeated, the girl tries to stop me one last time at the exit. I have to push past her to make my escape.

Exhausted from the encounter, I hang out over by the fountain to recuperate. Everyone around me gestures and whispers, but still no one says a thing. Then, I see a little boy of about three standing with his mother in my peripheral vision.

The boy, tugging on his mom’s pants, points at me and says, “Uh oh.” She ignores him, so he repeats himself louder. Still no reaction. He does it a third time, this time waving his arm at me instead of just pointing. His mother shushes him and pretends not to see me.

This is the last straw. I storm out of the mall frustrated and hating everyone.

Conclusion: Women are bitches, regardless of age. Exception: women who work at the Gap, because at least they make an effort.

ZOMBIES TAKE CENTER STAGE: DEAD CENTER

Fish Rap Live!
Volume 18, Issue 7



I was almost denied my high school diploma. Second semester of my senior year, I was failing my freshman-level drama class.

There were two main reasons my grade was hanging in the balance. For one, my arch nemesis and fierce rival Jimmy Weinberger told my epileptic teacher that he saw me imitating her in the midst of a seizure one day in the hall (not true). Long story short, she hated me from that day forward and had no qualms about letting me know via my report card.

However, the fact that I can’t act was the main reason I was failing. Kids who weren’t even in my class would show up on the days I was performing just to see me crash and burn. I was so appalling that my teacher thought I was messing up on purpose to be cute and punished me by giving me harder parts. In truth, I’m not that starved for attention – I’m just no good.

When Devin Fearn asked me if I wanted to be a zombie in his film The Beginning, I said yes without thinking. Honored, I thought, “Who wouldn’t want to have a role in a huge zombie movie – one that’s being submitted to all the major film festivals, previewing at the Rio Theater in early June, and with plans to open up at the Del Mar in the fall?” Then I flashbacked to tumbling offstage during my particularly horrific performance in The Devil and Daniel Webster and thought, “Jesus Christ, what am I thinking?” But it was too late; I was already onboard.

Fearn wrote and produced this indie zombie flick with a group of students and young professionals. The “very bloody and emotional” project is backed by director Jono Schaferkotter and the production company Before North Studios. Fearn says that “the film is a rollercoaster of…well, it’s zombie-tastic. Just tell people it’s ‘zombie-tastic.’”

On the day of shooting, I tried to put myself in a bad mood to get into character (zombies are pissed off because they’re dead), but I was too nervous. I also broke out in hives, but this was probably more due to the zombie makeup (a.k.a. red gelatin, mud, and butt cream) that I was covered in.

I was sure my sub par acting skills would be quickly realized and that I would be banished to the background, but lucky for me, this was an intimate scene and every zombie got a little face time with the camera. I was asked to maul one of the human survivors with a group of fellow zombies. For the first take, I didn’t know what to do: Do I growl? Do I snarl? Do I bite him for real? Instead, I poked at him hesitantly like people do when they’re served those jellos with the real fruit in the middle.

By the second take, I knew it was time to get it together. All the other zombies presumably got straight A’s in their high school drama classes because they stayed in character even between takes. Deciding that I wouldn’t be shown up, I kicked it into high gear. With the cameras rolling, I channeled all my anger from my unresolved daddy issues and launched into a full-fledged zombie attack on my costar.

Later that day, as I washed off the fake blood mixed with the real blood from the real wounds I acquired while spending 10 hours eating human brains, I felt a surge of pride. People actually put enough faith in me to let me be a part of their creative endeavors. They most likely had no idea what they were getting themselves into when they asked for my help. However, I might be a better actor than I think. When I told the confused tour groups I passed on the way back to my apartment that I was bloody because I was raped, they looked shocked and aghast. Perhaps my small role in The Beginning has shown me my calling as a blood-soaked extra.