You may recall a few weeks ago, I mentioned being nominated for Best Humor Blog in the 2009 Weblog Awards. Finalists were supposed to be announced in late December, with voting starting today. Turns out though, it’s not happening at all due to hosting issues or The Dust Bowl or more realistically, socialism.
Initially, I blamed myself. It’s illogical of course, but there’s still this residual guilt from grade school where I lead myself to believe that whichever team I was placed on in gym class lost because of me. Sometimes though, that was probably true because I spent most of the time pretending to tie my shoes or trying to figure out if my teacher was a lesbian and if so, was her girlfriend pretty?
This time, I’m almost certain this had nothing to do with me. You’d think it did, since it took these people months to actually let the losers (me) who were nominated know what’s up, but I’d like to think even I am not that disconnected from my tenuous internet responsibilities.
Regardless, being nominated gave me a total roll-over and I ended up meeting some cool people in the process. So if you voted for me, thank you and if you didn’t, I’m going to refrain from doling out petty threats.
I’ve mentioned this before, but I’m moving. Since this is less like the kind of move where you are offered a job and compelled to leave your familiar yet comfortable surroundings because 150k plus benefits is just too good to pass up, and more like the kind where you are completely nauseated by the fact that there are at least 15 cash advance establishments nearby and need to get out as soon as possible even though there’s no guarantee of employment or housing, I feel the need to save money wherever I can. So far, I’ve gone back on birth control to cut out the cost of condoms, and now, I’ve finally dropped $20 on a Diva Cup so that sinking $5-7 a month in tampons can be a thing of the past. The money I save not buying condoms and tampons equals out to about $300 a year ($240 for condoms*, $60 for tampons), which means one less month I have to pimp out my boyfriend to service the fine gentlemen of the Pacific NW.
I’ve contemplated the Diva Cup for years now, lurking on the many forums dedicated to it, trying to figure out if it was something that could work for me. I’ve noticed a lot of apprehension about it–concerns about whether it would actually fit, stay in, or even work properly without causing leaks. It’s easy to get behind the fear associated with something that can only be found in between the patchouli oil and cacao nibs at Whole Foods, but I assure you it’s unwarranted.
There are a lot of wonderful things about the Diva Cup, but the name and package design aren’t among them. For a product that is ahead of its time in health and environmental consciousness, it is way behind in debunking the myth that women will buy anything pink and will pay double for anything with flowers on it. That aside, since the Diva Cup can be used for up to 10 years (although they recommend that it is replaced once every year), there is an undeniable economic advantage over tampons and pads . Other more comforting aspects include the fact that you’re no longer promoting the growth of landfills or putting yourself at risk for Toxic Shock Syndrome. As far as comfort and insertion are concerned, I can’t say that I notice much of a difference. I did have to learn a new method of insertion by folding the Diva Cup into a ‘U’ shape, but after a few tries, it became second nature and is now just as comfortable as a tampon. As an added bonus, I can use the Diva Cup after sex as a semen catcher which automatically makes it worth double the original cost.
I admit that part of me mourns the loss of the overly pink and perfumed feminine care aisle, because while I wouldn’t say I was proud to buy tampons every month, it was a tradition that involuntarily became part of my identity as a woman. As superficial as it is to buy a box of tampons displaying an unnaturally happy woman doing a toe touch and call it being a woman, it was something I was able to relate to, and in retrospect, something that I am ultimately glad to be rid of.
This is inspired from We Have Lasers, a site dedicated to the overall failure of the 90s. They wouldn’t post my own laser portrait because I submitted it under Vagina Drum, and there was fear that vagina would be too “R-rated for We Have Lasers.” I guess that’s what I get for daring to imply that the vagina even exists, but I’m optimistic that one day, we’ll all stop clutching our pearls over what sits or flaps between our legs. Whatever, it’s still a cool site and I encourage you to go there–but now I’m in the awkward position of being one of those people who thinks that their photos are really interesting and/or funny.
Sadly, this is probably the best school picture I have. All others involve braces, prison issue eyebrows and a general lack of concern for attempting to look like a human being. For whatever reason, I wanted my hair curled that day. So my mom and I got up really early and she did it for me as I stood there inhaling White Rain hairspray and wishing I had just dyked out like I always did and settled for one of those skull shredding plastic combs they give you at school.
Once I got dropped off, one of my classmates spotted me and made some sort of approving comment about my hair and I hissed at them, ate the skin of a nearby squirrel and hid behind the nearest wall. I’m just kidding about the first two things–but I did hide because I guess I was embarrassed that I had discarded my L.A. Gears to be a girl for the day, and someone noticed. Also, you can’t see it in the photo, but my denim shirt was somehow made better by a series of Looney Tunes characters cleverly peeking out from the pocket, and of course I had to fuck that up by crossing my arms like what now.
I usually get kind of unnaturally giddy on the day I go to the gynecologist. I don’t necessarily get a thrill at the thought of my gyno touching me, but that’s mostly because I’m in a paper gown, the lighting is atrocious and I’m being finger banged all the way up to my stomach. Otherwise, I think we could have a good time together.
The one thing I don’t like about the gynecologist is when I’m asked questions I’ve already answered on the paperwork. She’ll be like, “When was your last menstrual period?” and not only am I trying to remember what I wrote so she doesn’t think I’m a liar, but I’m also trying to hold myself back from going into my usual I already told you. You never listen to me. I can’t believe I’ve wasted all of this time with you. mode.
Anyway, for whatever reason, my gynecologist’s office usually looks like your typical NASCAR audience, only with more pizza flavored Combos. When I went in today, I had the pleasure of sitting next to a pregnant chain smoker and the father/uncle of her unborn child. He was obviously very displeased with the fact that he was at the “lady doctor” (his words, not mine), and she kept lamenting about how she “needed a fucking drink”, and I’m being kind because drank is actually more phonetically accurate. From what I gathered, they just bought on new car (if a ‘95 Lumina counts as ‘new’) and needed to deal with some sort of insurance issue, so they took it upon themselves to flippantly cancel their appointment minutes before and reschedule. Meanwhile, I’m approaching my first hour in the waiting room, thinking, “What kind of sweet ass deal do they have where they can just cancel an appointment within the hour and not have to pay?” Then I took my head out of my ass and thought, “Oh right. Welfare.”
Now I hate to get all Bill O’Reilly on everyone, but if you’re on government assistance, or at the very least you can’t afford to feed yourself (as was the case with these two based on the mention of their “food stamp card”), then I can’t justify any reason why you should reproduce during the time in which you are not economically viable. Ok, economically viable is kind of a bullshit term. What I mean to say is: If you can’t keep yourself in Cheetos and beer, don’t have a fucking kid.
I know there’s a slippery slope when it comes to dictating whether or not women can/should reproduce. At the same time, I refuse to accept that it is somehow anti-feminist or misogynistic to believe that women and men who choose to have children under bleak economic circumstances are at best misinformed, irresponsible, selfish or all of the above. Attempts have been made to actually consider family planning, but without much success because I guess foresight isn’t on the to-do list of the Jerry Falwell types.
So, as I’m sitting there trying not to stare at the inappropriate pictures of babies with rose peals over their genitals, I notice that the reincarnation of Anna Nicole Smith has struck up a conversation with another patient. They exchange stories, which means that in addition to learning about how nice her 14 year old car is, she has an existing brood at home and at 23, is pregnant with her third. Her new victim in this lesson of “Holy shit my life just got exponentially better” produced only one response, which was, “Well, God doesn’t give you anything you can’t handle.” At this point, I almost left my post as shifty-eyed eavesdropper to challenge her to a duel because I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Instead, I sat back in my chair, not knowing which fire to put out first, while ultimately landing on “meh.”
Look, I’m all for deferring personal responsibility just like everyone else, but only when I eat two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and blame it on the fact that I needed to use the rest of the bread or else it would start to mold and I paid good money for this so it’s senseless to throw it away. This doesn’t really apply when I’m responsible for another human being or really anything that doesn’t involve gorging on afternoon snacks.
Oh and on my way home, in a sick twist of consistency, I saw a bumper sticker that read, “Relax, God is in control”. We’re so fucked.
