I obviously don’t do SILS anymore. I probably should’ve said something but I hoped, like a breakup with someone you really never want to see again, that if I ignored it long enough everyone would just get the hint. No one seemed to notice, which is good and bad. Good because I didn’t have to feel guilty and bad because it confirmed my worst fear, which is that no one really cared what I had to say about tampons or granola.
I quit because I thought I was fucking Sue Johanson with this shit and held myself to a weekly review of something that I recently used/liked/put in my vagina. Problem was, I quickly ran out of stuff and so when I sensed myself reaching (I almost did a post about a particular brand of bread), I realized that it was inauthentic and thus, defeated the purpose. But, I still put things in my vagina and feel the need to tell people about it so here I am.
I live minutes away from a Whole Foods, so I’m there a lot to bask in the thick, atmospheric pretension that occurs when you buy organic milk in a glass bottle for $8 and champion the benefits of locally grown produce. Oh, plus I really love those little Annie’s Homegrown cheddar bunnies. One thing that always caught my eye was this large bottle of liquid plastered with lots of quotes dealing with free speech, unity and a balanced diet…as it relates to God. The bottle alone is worth the price ($8-15 for 32 oz.) because it’s full of material that you could only expect to hear from a homeless dude warning everyone about World War III, but I assure you what’s inside is even better. Dr. Bronner’s castile soap claims 18 uses, and while some of them are only practical if you live in a commune, the few that I’ve found are exceedingly valuable for everyday use. Initially, I used Dr. Bronner’s (Tea Tree and Peppermint varieties) as a body wash and loved it. The lather produced from just a few drops is incredible and as an added bonus, that clean soap smell lingers with me throughout the day. From there, I used it to wash my hair, floors, counters, bras, and underwear. I haven’t used it as a laundry detergent yet, but Dr. Bronner’s claims that as a use as well. Additionally, Dr. Bronner’s is absolutely indispensable if you camp or travel a lot because it means that instead of packing shampoo, detergent, soap, toothpaste and mouthwash (when diluted, it can be used orally), you only have to make room for one bottle.
Dr. Bronner was kind of like a charitable, Jewish version of Charles Manson who believed in world peace instead of…race wars. Actually, the only thing they really have in common is the propensity to exhibit insanity that can be seen from space, which is something I happen to be intensely jealous of. Bronner is remarkable for many reasons (he promoted a method of birth control involving lemon juice and Vaseline), but paramount among them all is his line of castile soaps, which after his death in 1997, has remained owned and operated by his family.
So go answer the call of your inner Joan Baez and buy some now.
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.
I know that’s it’s barely even Sunday at this point, but forgive me because lately, if Martin Lawrence were to play me in a movie about my life as a detective living in Miami with three children named Quincy, Megan, and James it would look a lot like this. In other words, I’ve been busy and now I can feel you rolling your eyes because you’re like, “Who is too busy to ejaculate into the ass of low-to-mid-range consumerist goods?”
So, when I say busy I mean that I have a queue of shit that I love that I’ve been methodically working on reviewing because I want to do it right instead of throwing out a low-brow dick joke and calling it a day. This also means that I avoid the task altogether and melt 4 chocolate bars down into an electric wok so that I can dip pretzel sticks into it and eat my feelings. This is called progress.
Speaking of eating my feelings, one time, I made cupcakes that looked like spaghetti and meatballs which is kind of gross but then really delicious once you realize it’s all made of candy. This gift of disgust followed by immediate delight is what I have to offer, now and forever:
I have been pale my whole life, and, despite numerous attempts to combat this disease, I’m still not used to the tone used when people exclaim, “You’re so PALE!” It’s the same one I suspect people use when they find out a sex offender is living in their neighborhood–one of disgust and outrage that ultimately leads to a torch filled witch hunt.
I cringe to think of all the times I tried to voluntarily turn myself into a George Hamilton lookalike, using everything including cheap self tanners, baby oil on a nude beach and tanning beds affixed with industrial strength exhaust fans.
Eventually, I stopped trying once I realized that I didn’t want to look like a cured ham at age 35. For years following my vow to stop trying to trick people into thinking that I was hot because I looked like a photo negative, I still failed to use sunscreen. This is partially because I was lazy and didn’t want to smell like coconut-scented chicken grease, but also because I thought that any sun I unintentionally picked up from being outside was like the free spot on a Bingo card and therefore failed to cause any sort of harm.
I recently wised up and bought Neutrogena’s Ultra Sheer Dry-Touch Sunblock (SPF 85) and have been using it as my primary moisturizer. I was skeptical about its claim that it won’t clog pores, along with it’s advertised “lightweight clean feel.” However, after one week of using it, I can vouch for both. The scent is nothing special, but not cloying either. In case you’re as sloppy as I am and get it too close to your eyes, and…wait for it because this is revelatory…it will burn. I had to learn the hard way, twice.
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.
