Last night my friends and I partook in one of our favorite pastimes, which is talking about inappropriate things really loudly at a public place, like a bar or restaurant. We were once doing this exact thing while out one night, sitting next to a father and his three young sons. The subject was boys, and things one might do with boys, and perhaps this is how we should have been discussing the matter. "Oh, and then that thing? He did that thing and I did that." But we were using full-on specific vocabulary and creative descriptive images using our hands as stick figures. Before the father left, he bought our table a round of shots and said, "Thanks for educating my sons. That's better than I could ever do." That was pretty gross, looking back. But we drank the shots. Last night's discussion was brought on by the onset, earlier that morning, of what must be the five millionth urinary tract infection I've incurred in my life. Once I mentioned it we four girls were off and running with comments regarding "prickly hot needles when you pee," and so forth. The conversation quickly moved to yeast infections, of course, and it's a good think we were in a crowded restaurant because, damnit, these people needed to hear about the horror!

Luckily I've curbed the pain in my urinary tract, the most hospitable environment in America for E.coli, with my latest prescription of Cipro. But the most important thing is that my girls understand. I mean, it's one thing to tell J, coworkers, and others who haven't experienced one of these fantastic infections, that you don't feel well, while all the while you look and sound normal. You may be curled up on the floor in a ball, cursing your body, the world, but anyone can do that. It's another thing to hear sympathetic friends say, "Oh, you poor thing." Friends who mean it, who've been there, the prickly hot needles, the things we shout about in bars and restaurants to those who wish to listen and to many who don't.