Why Chaz Bono Is My Idol


It was no surprise to me when Chaz Bono announced her/his sex change. Why wouldn’t you want to be a man? Now, I know this can be a senstive topic, especially for people would give anything to have Chaz’s operation. But in my opinion, changing into a man seems like the greatest idea I’ve ever heard.

Ladies, I’m not trying to put you down. I’m a fellow feminist woman with a tea cup, myself. However, no matter how much I know women are smarter, stronger, and sassier…I know that life would just be easier being a man. Mainly: because you don’t have to deal with a vagina.

Please don’t shoot me for saying this but vaginas suck. Like really suck. I’ve known the trouble of vaginas since the day I bothered to look down and notice my own. But it wasn’t until April 16, 2010 that I learned the real problem with vaginas: tampons. Men don’t have to bother with them. You rarely hear men complaining, “Man, my penis is really bothering me today.” But it seems like I’m always thinking “Jesus, I’d rather like not to have a knife stabbing up inside me.”

That was the feeling I experienced on April 16, 2010. That’s when I sided with Chaz Bono. That’s when I decided being a woman sucks. Because that’s the day I got my vagina pulled out.

I’m just gonna say it again for dramatic effect—I got my vagina pulled out.

It started off a really, really good day too. That’s the irony of whole deal. I got to skip the last two classes of school…AP Statistics and Speech. So that was the start of what I thought would be a super-fantastic-hell-of-a day.

AP Statistics was the class that was taught by a 64-year-old triathlon runner who liked to check out the girls in my class that were actually pretty. (Not me.) Although, all girls were stupid in his eyes–that sexist pig–and yet he spent the majority of his time ignoring the smart men and talking to girls in my class named Sammy or Karen. Sammy was skinny and…perky, if you catch my drift. And Karen had the biggest breasts in the entire senior class. Maybe even the entire senior class’ breasts put together. They were that big! So anyway, he was a really swell guy giving them so much undivided attention.

My Speech class was the dumbest waste of time in the history of my high school. The teacher was a short, blonde haired woman who traveled all over the world with her ten husbands and therefore really understood the ins and outs of different world languages. So she liked to pronounce things the way she thought they were supposed to be said in their “native” tongue. Like when we learned etiquette and which glass was for water and which class was for champagne. Only it wasn’t champagne it was sham-pon-ya! “The tall, slender goblet is for sham-pon-ya,” she would say. I laughed at that, and got a 75 as my daily participation. She was a really nice lady.

But that’s not the point. The point is that my mother was actually allowing me to skip those two classes to go stand in line at the book store and get my Chelsea, Chelsea Bang Bang book signed by the goddess herself…Chelsea Handler. It was going to be the epitome of my entire life. All the years of shitty middle school and sucky high school, years of crying myself to sleep with my Hershey’s chocolate bar—all of it was leading me to this point when I was going to meet Chelsea Handler, during school, with my friends, and with permission. Awoooahhhhhhhh…I could hear the gates of heaven opening even then.

My friends and I left school right as Statistics was supposed to be starting. Then we drove to the bookstore, got our wrist bands, and waited in line. Later, they announced Chelsea’s plane was running behind; she’ll be twenty minutes late.

Now, I should have taken this a sign that the day was not going to be as fun as I originally thought it was going to be. But I was too excited to care. I could wait another twenty minutes. It was Chelsea for Christ’s sake.

So we wait some more. During the mean time, my friend Macey’s spray-tan party was supposed to be taking place. (Yes, spray-tan parties exist.) Prom was the next day and all the girls in the Junior and Senior class were going to go to my friend’s house to get beautifully golden. We lived in Austin, Texas and everyone was already brown, but that wasn’t the point. They all wanted to be even more radiant—about the color of an overcooked french fry at McDonalds (the kind that they wouldn’t even serve to the blind costumers.) But I didn’t want to be negative, so I agreed to go. God high school is stupid.

I wasn’t going to go to Prom anyway, because Prom is so not my idea of a fun night. But I agreed to go to the Pre-Prom Spray Tan party, only because it was at Macey’s house.

So anyway, Macey had to be at her house to let in the guests and the spray tan lady at 4:45, but Chelsea’s book signing was happening at 4:00. Macey, at the last minute, realized she needed to be there at her house to let people in. And then she was going to rush back and get her book signed. So Macey leaves and the rest of us stay in line.

An hour goes by and we finally get let in to meet Chelsea! Again, awehhhhhh!!! Paradise.

chelsea handler
chelsea handler

I get up there and we’re told we get exactly eight seconds to speak to her while she signs our names in the books. Everyone’s saying the same old thing too: I love you, I love you, I love you. And from afar I can see the fake smile she’s forcing, politely saying “thank you” to people she would normally make fun of but can’t because they’re buying her book and paying for her next trip to Cabo.

I want to say something different, though. Be original.

In my mind I wanted her to remember me and talk about me later with her friends, then hire a detective agency to come find me so that we could be life-long friends and years later joke about how we met at her book signing….Or I would have been okay with just being her bitch. My seventeen-year-old-self would have done anything for her—free of charge. As long as she gave me a sleeping bag and an occasional monthly shower, I would have sold my entire life to her servitude. And I wanted this all to come true with my simple eight seconds to impress her.

So I get up there and she takes my book and as she signing, “Jenny, Cheers!” I clear my throat and say, “I know you get this a lot but you’re probably the greatest person in the world and I cut class to be here today.”

That was it. Not nearly as clever as I wanted, or witty, or memorable. Instantly I become upset with myself. You Imbecile, I think. But instead of dismissing me like she should have she raises her head and says, “I love that!”

Then I walked away, smiling, letting out a little bit of pee in my pants. The best moment of my life: Chelsea “loved” that I skipped class for her. She LOVED ME!! She really loved me! Life is so perfect sometimes, I then think to myself, breathing out a sigh of sheer ecstasy.

Chelsea Handler loved me! Really, truly loved me. She didn’t love the rest of the 400 people standing in line that said, “I love you.” She loved me! The girl that cut class for her. Man oh man oh man. I was a rockstar.

But then my friends and I get down the stairs and notice that the line is almost done. I ask one of the girls helping with the line, and she tells me that they’ll probably only be here another ten minutes. And Macey still isn’t here!!!!

I call Macey immediately and she’s fifteen minutes away. She bought three books for Chelsea to sign and it was because of her that the rest of us were able to be there anyway—she being the driver. So of course she starts flipping out. She tells me she’s going to book it and try and get there in time.

Me, and the two other girls I’m with, stand outside the book shop to wait for Macey in the rain. However, I am still smiling. With pee in my pants mixed with period, because its That Time of the Month Again and my tampon is leaking, the smile remains glued to my chubby cheeks. I know you probably could care less that my tampon was leaking and that might be a little too graphic for you. Well if it is, stop reading now because its about to get a hell of a lot worse.

The new plan was that Macey was going to drive up, hop out of the car while one of my friends, Ari, was going to take her car so that she didn’t have to waste time parking, and Macey was going to run up and meet Chelsea just in the nick of time.

Finally Macey comes, leaving her own party to get this signature, hops out of the car and everything goes according to plan. Macey made it there just as the doors were about to close and it became truly a beautiful moment.

Beautiful! We got our signature from Chelsea! Pure delight.

Anyway, Macey and I drive back to her party afterwards talking about how in a few years we’re going to be working for Chelsea and going to be the coolest bitches in the entire fucking world.

We get stuck in traffic, another sign I should have noticed, but eventually we make it to her party. That’s when I realize I’m bleeding everywhere and I need to replace my tampon pronto, putting Chelsea in the back of my mind.


So I sneak up to Macey’s room with my friend Grace and get a tampon. But when I reach down to pull out the soaking tampon currently inside of me, the string is missing. I can’t find the string. I even do a little dance in Macey’s bathroom, bending and reaching like that annoying girl on TV with the exercise tapes who probably can’t even spell exercise, and still, the string is nowhere to be found.

I start to get worried a little, but I’m still on a Chelsea high and everything is too wonderful for a full-out panic. I call out from the pot, “Grace, I can’t get my tampon out!” So she starts coaching me from behind the door, talking about some article she read in Cosmo that described in full detail exactly what to do when you have a string-less tampon.

I get up, as Grace instructs, and squat down. But of course I haven’t moved since the 7th grade and my squat is more of a fake bending of the knees just enough to make it a I’m-not-fully-standing sort of thing. I start laughing depressingly at my great-grandmother body.

“Now you just have to reach up and pull it out, Jenny.”

“Excuse me?” I yell, obviously extremely grossed out about reaching up into my own vagina that’s bleeding everywhere.

“You just have to do it Jenny. I’ve had to do it before too. This happens to everyone. Come on, just reach up.”

“Fuck you,” I declare. I hear Grace laugh quietly as I close my eyes and attempt to get my two fingers up into myself far enough to pull out the fucking nightmare tampon. I feel something that feels like a synthetic, squishy tube and I pull. And then I scream for death because hell would have been more comfortable than this.

Then, like the virgin I am, I cry out in agony, “Grace, I’m pulling but it won’t come out!”

“I’m coming in, Jenny,” she declares. So I pull out my hand that’s now about the way Carrie looked at Prom. Grace then comes in to see me on the toilet in all my glory surrounded by blood. I’m balling too, in case I forgot to mention that. Oh, I also need to mention that Grace is signed up to go to Med School and that is the ONLY reason on earth that I allowed her to come into the bathroom and see me, bloody, horrified, and panicking.

“Jenny you need to relax! Come on!”

This continues for twenty minutes: she helping me relax, exiting the bathroom, and me fingering myself and pulling on the tampon that WILL NOT come out.  I believe that’s second base. I got myself to second base!! Crying, I’m screaming all of this to Grace and now to about four other girls who heard me freaking out and decided to come upstairs to the bathroom and witness this incredible moment for themselves. Jenny just got to second base! Horray. The tears keep coming.

“Grace it will not come out! FUCK!”  I’m screaming and nothing anyone is saying to me is helping.

One girl decides to tell me about her friend who this happened to three times before she had to go in and get part of her vag cut off because she had an extra piece of skin and that was why her tampons kept getting stuck. Then I start imagining myself at the gyno getting my vag cut off and all I can think about is the needle they’re going to have to poke me with to get me under. I hate needles, so I cry harder.

I had only been to the gyno once before in my life for an…exam. I’m not sure why they call it that, probably to make it sound less severe than it is. Exams in my life had never been that bad up to that point. I didn’t study for them, because exams were normally on Friday and the night before, Thursday, was Grey’s Anatomy night…so obviously I wasn’t going to study. Therefore, I would get a low A and everything would fine. But the exam I had at the gyno was NOT fine. It was anything but fine!

I cried during that too. The gyno! The poor “lady doctor” who was in fact a lady and a doctor put me in the stirrups: that’s when the tears started. Why did they call them stirrups? It was certainly not like riding horses and it did not remind me of Andy from Toy Story who I’m sure used stirrups in his horseback riding days before he was sold to that creeper boy who owned him and who lived next to an even creepier boy who tortured toys.

Maybe that’s how they came up with the stirrup name. Torturing toys and torturing Jenny since 2009. Anyway, I got through the exam yelling only one curse word and crying hysterically because all I could think of was Law & Order SVU and how Olivia Benson would help her rape victims and they would have to get “exams” to see if there was any sperm left on them. And it just so happened that the Friday before Chelsea Day, I gave a speech on Miriska Hargitay for my Speech Class. Talk about full circle irony!

Well, right then and there at the gyno, I felt like I was getting raped. BTW, if you are a boy and you are reading this…Fuck you AND your penis for never having to go see a lady doctor and sit in Toy story stirrups for rape victims. Fuck. You.

Anyway, back to April 16th. I’m in Macey’s bathroom for a good half hour before Grace gives up on me and I’m crying so hard it could have been a sequel to Beaches. I panic some more and know that I…gulp… have to call my mother to come and get me.

Macey comes and finds me while I’m waiting for my mother and we walk up to the top of the driveway to wait. On the way up the long driveway we see that there’s a dead frog smashed into the pavement.

Macey and I both start smiling. “That’s you’re life, Jenny,” she laughs. And I laugh too, trying not to cry. I was a dead frog squashed onto pavement. That was me. That was my life. Even at age 17. A dead frog.

It was as if God was telling me, “you are not allowed to be too happy.” Waiting for my mother, Macey and I discuss God’s hatred towards me. I’m not allowed to be too happy and meet Chelsea Handler, so God punishes me by sticking a tampon inside of me and keeping it there for all eternity. Or about twelve hours, but still, it feels like eternity when words like Toxic Shock and Stirrups start circling your brain.

I never cried back then either, especially in front of people. So for me to be crying in front of the whole party was a very big deal. That’s how everyone knew how upset I was about this. I hated, hated, hated dealing with periods as it was. I hated them! And then my freaking tampon gets stuck! Thanks God! Thanks for the great, awesome life! Thanks for making me in your stupid image! (Btw I didn’t believe in God back then, but if God did exist, I thought of her as an old, obese black woman sitting in a rocking chair with a cigarette in her mouth and her middle finger risen in my direction.)

My mother finally came to get me, thankfully. But when I got in the car and explained everything to her she asked me, “Well, Jenny, do you even have a tampon in?”

My mother was such a smart ass sometimes. How dare she! She thought I was genuinely stupid—and this confirmed it. Well Jenny, do you even have a tampon in? JESUS!

I screamed at her through the blanket of black tears (my mascara making them black. I, myself, am not black. Although I wished I was sometimes at dances and stuff).

“MOM! I’m not an idiot! There’s a tampon stuck! I can feel it. I keep pulling and pulling on it and it won’t come out. It is too absorbed by my heavy freaking flow!”

“Okay, okay. Let’s go home first and try to get it out before we resort to taking you to the ER.”

So we drive home and I go in her bathroom and again, try to pull it out.

No luck, only screams as I get both my index finger and my thumb up myself and pull on the tubular tampon with all my might. Then she tells me she has to go get Katie, my sister, and so I sit in a hot bath and try to “relax” as she goes and picks her up.

When she gets back, I agree to let her try to help me…get it out. Now, before you judge me you have to realize I’ve been pulling on the bastard for an hour and it won’t come out because my fingers just aren’t strong enough and I’m crying and I’m missing the party that I actually agreed to go to despite the fact I normally sit at home and watch Twilight by myself and try to be as anti-social as I can be. This time, I actually agreed to go to the party. And what happens? My tampon decides to expand so big it won’t come out my midget vag.

I end up on the floor of my mother’s bathroom, my legs spread apart, with her about to try and help me pull it out. But the second she touches my…area…I scream bloody murder. This was just too much. Too. Much! I was not going to have my mother stick her fingers up me! I was seventeen years old and no matter how much I loved my insane mother, I was not going to have her get to second base with me. Or third base, I guess. I was hazy on the details seeing as I was the chubby, fat girl in the grade and the only time guys ever called me was to see if my friends would want to go with them to Prom.

So I scream and my mother yells back at me to stop being such a wuss. The only way we’re going to get it out is to go to the doctor. Yep. The Doctor.

So we leave my sister at home under the impression I have a serious case of “cramps.” You just had to say a word referring to periods and she would flip. She was in 6th grade and ever since she had the “sex talk” at school, she turned bright red at any mention of things relating to fallopian tubes.

Fifteen minutes later we’re at the ER. I walk inside, trying to wipe away my tears of embarrassment and misery, and there’s only one old guy sitting the waiting room. I think this is a good sign. I’ll be able to get in quick. Or, the doctor will be able to “get in” quick, I should say.

I walk up to the window in the lobby.

“What’s the problem?” a guy in a suit asks me. I swallow a gulp and give him the worst look ever.

“Her tampon is stuck,” my mother blurts out. And then I die.

Okay, not really, but basically. All previous feelings of being alive vanish and I’m pretty sure I just died and this is not the window to the ER but the window to hell.

Okay,” the guy mutters. Then a male doctor walks up behind the guy, behind the window, and again asks, “What’s the problem?”

This time, I’m sure I’m dead. No one answers him. My mom’s waiting for me to get the courage to say it out loud and the guy sitting down behind the window is obviously uncomfortable saying the word “vagina” because he clearly did not fraternize with people of the opposite sex. He had a polyester black suit and Harry Potter glasses on at the ER, if that gives you any indication of what I’m talking about.

“I’ll tell him,” the fool in the suit finally whispers, closing the window. Then I watch from the waiting chair as they talk. The doctor smiles and then laughs, not knowing I’m watching. Then he looks up and sees me looking at him, closes his mocking mouth, and turns away.

I sink lower into my chair, dead-er.

Finally that same male doctor that made fun of me comes out from behind the door and escorts me to the room where they take my blood pressure and everything. Soon enough, the suit guy comes and tells my mom its going to be a 100 dollar co-pay. No, I think, please God No Mother. Please don’t say anything. Its just a 100 dollars. I’ll pay for it!

Of course, she begins her rant I almost had memorized. She starts screaming at him, to then find out my father changed the insurance and that’s why its so high, and then starts screaming at the doctor for taking so long. And in between, screams at herself for coming to this ER in the first place. “You should have gone to St. David’s!” she tells herself so that the doctor and I can both hear, loud and clear.

Meanwhile, I’m crying some more. I have a tampon stuck in me, on a Friday night, with a doctor who is laughing at me and a mother with a huge grey sweatshirt on screaming at the whole hospital. Great, I think, this is super perfect.

The male doctor tells me to go wait in one of the rooms made of a curtain and change into a special blue night gown he gives to me. Then he tells me to wait behind the curtain for the real doctor to come and do the “procedure.” I hated that he called it a “procedure.” I suppose it was better than the “exam” but not better enough. I was mortified.

Next, I went through all the curtain rooms and see that every single doctor/nurse there was a man. Every single one. The same night my tampon decides to get stuck in me is the same night that every female doctor in whole hospital decides to go home early. The tears come again.

The “real” doctor tells me they have to wait for the only female nurse to come down to supervise the procedure.

“How long is that going to take?” my mother asks as another tear drips slowly down my cheek.

“Anywhere from half an hour to three hours, ma’am.”

“Three hours!” my mom yells. I look around for a gun, or a rope, or a bottle of poison—anything to get me out of my current life’s situation.

There was nothing to save me, surprise surprise.

I change into the night gown like the doctor tells me to, but keep my underwear on so that I can bleed out onto my pad and not onto the sterile, white table. My mother sits in the chair beside me, tapping her finger loudly on the table so that whole hospital can know that we’re in a hurry. Like her saying “I have a little girl at home” a million times wasn’t enough.


So I sit and wait on the table, bleeding out, crying for ten or so minutes. Thankfully, the lady nurse then comes in with a pity smile. That makes me want to vomit. She pities me! The old, fat lady doctor with a mustache and a bad bra so that there’s some serious nipple action, actually pities me! That’s when you know you never should have been born.

“Why couldn’t I have come out a gay boy?” I ask the lady nurse before she can say anything. She laughs a little and my mother laughs too, but in a forced sort of way, making it obvious she’s irritated it’s taking so long.

The lady-nurse ignores my question. “The doctor will be here any second for the procedure. Everything will be fine. This happens all the time.”

I didn’t ask her if it happened all the time but she told me anyway. That made me feel EVEN worse. She felt like she needed to reassure me that I wasn’t a freak? Do I look like a freak? Do I seem like freak? Obviously, I suppose.

She came over then and took my hand in hers. It felt like a cold rubber chicken. Cold rubber chicken handed fat lady with a mustache and huge nipples thought she needed to comfort me. Super. I was really that sorry of a person that she pitied me? God. I cried some more. The lady thought it was because I was in pain. But it wasn’t because I was in pain, it was because I was so embarrassed to be alive. This was just so typical for my life.

Seconds started ticking by. Tears continuing. My mother tapping her hand, reiterating she has a child at home, the lady smiling at me, “Its going to be okay.” —All of this repeating and repeating until finally the doctor comes in.

The doctor is a man…thank you Jesus, I think. PERFECT! …and he had to be about 84 years old too. His eyes were so purple I knew he hadn’t slept since the laptop computer was invented, and I was sure that the last thing he wanted to do was look up my nasty va-j. Not to mention he looked like he could have been a member of the Adam’s Family.

Gulping down a huge glob of saliva that had been building up for about two hours now, I take off my underwear, mumble something about a sex change, and sit back up on the white bed. He screws on the stirrups…I wince and the only thing I can think of is “Buzz Lightyear to the rescue”…then he asks me to scoot up.

When I do, he shakes his head. “You’ll have to scoot up a little closer and bend your knees, dear.”

I roll my eyes, trying not to periate all over him. I manage to lift myself with my lack of stomach mussels, cursing my 5th grade P.E. teacher that told me I was not meant for athletics, and scoot further down the bed in a humph. The lady takes my hand again and the doctor tells me to relax. That’s when I actually start to laugh.

Relax! Ha. That’s funny you fucking male doctor with your fucking penis. You have a tampon stuck in your vag all day and YOU try to relax you dumb piece of shit!

So I don’t relax, obviously, because I’m so ticked that they’re telling me to relax. The nurse repeats, “Relax dear” and so I tense up even more. Then they decide to open me up anyway. He puts the spector thingy inside me and I start cursing on cue. I normally tried not to curse in front of my mother, but right then and there, I couldn’t help myself. I was in hell!

“I’m going to need to poke around a little,” he mumbles. Great.

The doctor starts digging inside me. I’m cursing, a baby across the hall is screaming, another little girl starts crying, “mommy, who is that?” because I’m swearing so loud the whole hospital can hear.

And the doctor just continues to “poke” around. It was more like scrape around, or hammer around, or punch around if you ask me.

“I can’t find it yet. Just a minute,” he declares. Then he really starts poking me and I swear on Chelsea Handler’s life that I was being physically tortured. It’s too bad the terrorist in 9/11 didn’t have poonanis because after one second of the “tampon find” I was screaming for my life. It hurt sooooooooooooo badly. I can’t even describe it. And I was sure I was bleeding everywhere too, to make it all better.

The worst pain I had EVER experienced was that night. Picture knives and acid being thrown onto an open wound and that was what I felt. I could have powered the entire city of Monsters INC I was screaming so loudly.

But it was for a good cause, I told myself. And in a minute it would be over. The torturous-horrible-there-is-not-even-a-word-to-describe-this-kind-of pain would soon be over and the tampon would finally be out. Keep it together, Jenny, it’s gonna be out soon.

“Um, honey,” the doctor mutters, taking his tools out of my tender private parts and looking up at me with a confused expression. “You don’t have a tampon in. There’s nothing here. You must have forgotten you took it out. You’re fine.”

……………………….. silence.

That’s when you know you’re a true virgin…when you can’t tell the difference between the feeling of your cervix and a fucking tampon. Jesus.

I told you… whatever you were doing Friday, April 16th, 2010 no matter how horrible it was…was nothing compared to my day. Because that was the day I discovered I am a moron. I cried for hours in front of friends, my mother, sister, and doctors and for what? A fake tampon? No wonder I couldn’t get the tampon out when I pulled! I was literally pulling my vagina off for hours! How pathetic is that?

I am a moron.

I am an imbecile.

I am such a loser.

Also, I’m getting a sex change as soon as possible.

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