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.
Kimberly-Clarke, manufacturers of Depends adult diapers, have recently added to the pot of men vs women, dogs vs cats, bacon vs tampons bullshit with a new ad campaign for their line of adult diapers specifically designed for women and men. Since I’m not quite kinky enough to claim that I’ve ever used adult diapers, I assume that this is good news for those who do. However, the commercials possess a Miss Arizona-esque brand of what the fuck. While I realize that they probably came to life with some consideration of the audience they’re targeting, it’s insulting to assume that everyone over 60 has this idea that women are only good for making Apple Brown Betty and men are good for drinking Cognac and talking about WWII.
So far, there’s one commercial featuring white people, and one featuring…everyone else, or “coloreds”, if I’m to assume Kimberly-Clarke’s stance on how people over 60 think. One focuses on who rules the world, the other, driving. They both share this strand of totally wacky and endearing banter between one self assured man and one expectedly passive woman and you’re just like, “Aww, old people…is there anything they won’t say?” It’s really not even necessary for me to sum them up based on the embarrassingly predictable topics, but it suffices to say that the men are adamant that men rule the world and are better drivers while the women are kind of loosely committed to the idea of anything not involving grandchildren.
Somehow, these subjects exceed at being both painfully irrelevant and socially damaging. It’s kind of like when Billy Baldwin is allowed on TV–no one really cares, but you know it can’t be good.
It’s possible, however, that I’m over thinking things and missing the point that it doesn’t really matter if men or women rule the world or know how to effectively merge, as long as whoever is in charge is wearing a cable knit sweater. Regardless, why am I going to take the opinion of someone who can’t even keep their urine under control? Talk to me when you have tips on how to blame your soaked crotch on faulty plumbing.
This week, I watched Transgeneration because I took two Xanax and thought, “This could be fun.”
The problem with me is, I sometimes get really involved with the people on these docu-dramas or whatever term you want to use for “reality TV but not really.” For instance, one time I watched MTV’s True Life: I’m Dead Broke and there was this guy whose family didn’t even have running water (aka broke) and he was trying to join the Army so he could support himself, but he couldn’t because he was on probation for stealing cars. I looked him up later and found out that he did the smart thing and reproduced. I also discovered that there’s a donation fund set up, and he even has an entire blog dedicated to him, which means you’ve made it only without all of the money and perks.
So, essentially, Transgeneration is a documentary (comprised of 8 episodes) that chronicles the gender transition of four college students. In all candor, I cringe to use the term gender in this context because gender isn’t something you are, it’s something you do and so to say transgender implies that you can either be 100% male or 100% female and anything in between is classified as freak . So now that the profound pillow stitched adages are out of the way, I’ll go on.
I had an unexpected reaction after watching Transgeneration. I predicted that I would watch it with a tear in my eye and cheer them all on for wearing their pink ponchos or boxer briefs and I did, for the most part. I absolutely couldn’t stand T.J. (top right) and I wasn’t keen on Lucas either (bottom left), which is interesting because they’re both female to male transfers. After piecing this together, I tried to explore why I had such a negative reaction to the two. I’d like to think that it’s because T.J. was your typical pretentious grad student, who took an ethics class and now totally gets the meaning behind “No blood for oil” and Lucas just smoked a lot, put even Pauly Shore to shame in his use of “dude” and wore a lot of Abercrombie & Fitch. While under average circumstances this is plenty of fodder to qualify for my “Why do you exist” list, part of me wonders if there was something in me reacting to the fact that these men were rejecting femininity, and in the process, inadvertently making me feel insecure. It’s kind of like when you have a favorite movie (let’s say…Home Alone II: Lost in New York ) and you start talking to someone about it assuming they’ve seen it, but they haven’t and you’re outraged or even worse, they have seen it and they’re like “I didn’t really like that movie.” Maybe this is just me unveiling more of my unsuspecting Lorena Bobbitt-esque insanity, but I always walk away from those encounters feeling kind of slighted. Sure, I know that it’s just a matter of preference and that’s ok because I mean some people are Vin Diesel fans and I don’t hate them for it, but deep down I’m just kind of like, “I don’t get it…Macaulay Culkin was at his best, and oh man, when Joe Pesci’s head catches fire and he does a handstand over the toilet to put it out, that’s hilarious how could you not love that?”
So I don’t want it to seem that I’m trying to say that these men are crazy because like, tits get you tons of free shit so how could you want to get rid of them. What I am saying is that this Gender Identity Disorder bullshit has nothing to do with the individual, but everything to do with everyone else who is uncomfortable with a man who wouldn’t want to be a man and a woman who wouldn’t want to be a woman. Even before birth, so much emphasis is placed on genital-defined identity, so imagining a life in which you don’t (or can’t) relate to your penis or vagina as a means of sexual, physical, or mental expression is aberrant and must mean that something is wrong.
Point is, gender is performative anyway, so why should it matter if you have a dick under your pantyhose?
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.
I get a lot of visits from keyword searches relating to, or asking about, cunnilingus. Things like, “first time cunnilingus”, “what happens during cunnilingus”, and “cunnilungus mom”. I can’t help with the last one, but I…consider myself lucky for that.
As much as I talk about it, I rarely actually say cunnilingus in my every day life, and instead, opt for some sort of derivative of pussy eating, or if I’m feeling especially eager, I’ll say something like, “I want you to bury your head in between my thighs”. It may not be elegant, but when I need to grind a face, requesting something like, “Would you be so kind as to perform cunnilingus on me?” just isn’t as effective as, “Eat my pussy now.”
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