Hi how are you, how are the kids, say do you still use the menstrual cup?

I remember Karen and Tanis raving about the Diva Cup. So I googled it after finding out my girlie bits are sorda funked. I figure, hey! I know! Why not wear a diva cup, save my funked up girlie bits AND the environment?! WIN WIN!

Apparently, though, the Diva Cup is like Bob Dylan. You either love him or you very much don’t.

So I asked my good friend Laura, who is a complete hippie in the best possible way, what she thought of the diva cup. She had a small orgasm and said, “OMG GET ONE.”

Alrighty then.

So she sent along a few links and I promised to check them out.

This is a good starting point, she tells me: http://menstrualcupinfo.wordpress.com/

This is for All Things Menstrual Cup: http://community.livejournal.com/menstrual_cups/

And this? Well, this is the most bestest for big heavy periods. Like mine! http://www.divacup.com/

I send these to a few other friends because HEY, let’s all have small orgasms when we talk about our feminine hygiene products! The replies I get? Vary from GROSS OMG NO to OMG I LOVE MINE.

Apparently facebook is particularly sensitive.

[REMIND ME TO PUT IN A PIC HERE OF THE FACEBOOK DISCUSSION]

I felt a little more comfortable after reading a few answers to my own questions.

For example.

What if it got sucked up in my uterus?

Apparently, if you know your anatomy, you will not poop your baby out, nor will you get anything “sucked up in” to your uterus. There’s this cervix that keeps things out of your uterus, and babies in. I slightly remember this in some sort of discussion when I was yelling at a doctor to remove a child from my body but it’s all one big haze and all I can remember is we had sex this one time and a kid got pulled out 9 months later.

Ok, so how do I USE it?

On your first trial with The DivaCup, make sure you are relaxed and have time to read the User Guide thoroughly beforehand. Insertion and removal will only take a few seconds once you master the technique.

Wash your hands well with warm water and soap. Rinse. While sitting or standing in a comfortable position, insert your DivaCup according to the following instructions.

Alright, that only sounds slightly gross and difficult. But I thought that about tampons and penises when I was 13 and look at how well I do with those now.

What if I’m getting my vagina re-structured?!

Thankfully, the Diva Cup site answers this concern:

Whew.

I have cramps that make me want to stab things. Will this help?

According to a fabulous resource (aka: personal experience of a stranger) “I have no scientific proof. But I seriously think the Diva Cup lessens cramps and quells pain. Since I have a history of fainting from crippling painful cramps, I am the first to wonder how a cup can contain this condition. But I think it does. Again, I have no scientific proof.”

What if my vagina is allergic to nuts?

So now that my main concerns are answered, I should probably just dive in. Right? There’s no reason not to. It’s good for my vagina, it’s good for the earth and it’s good for me.

I’m in. What say you?

And people? IT IS ALWAYS ABOUT ME.

I’ve recently become part of a divorced couple. Not with Mr. Flinger, no no, we’ll kill each other before we try to split our assets, both of them, but with a group friend. It was a somewhat dysfunctional family, sure, with her and I as the two on opposite sides of most deep topics, but the children have spent the past three years growing up together (which constitutes 90% of their short lives thus far) and the group has endured babies, miscarriages, cancer and other life-altering news.

And then? It just fell apart.

Apparently because of me.

I won’t delve in to stupid details, all of which you’ll be getting from my view (see truth #1: IT IS ALL ABOUT ME) but the short version is that one fourth of the group decided she couldn’t be around me and I took it personally and cried a lot and we are left to split our assets.

Both of them.

The children don’t understand. “Why can’t I see my friend anymore? We don’t ever play with them anymore. Why? Can I draw her a picture?” I try to tell her it’s not her fault. “They’re just really busy.” But I feel a guilt and a pain knowing a truth, a stupid ridiculous truth: we’ve been divorced.

It hurts, I won’t lie.

It’s awkward now, the other two ladies left to try to be friends with us both. It’s hard for them to be in the middle. We talk about holidays, how will we share the group? One weekend at my house, one at hers. It’s Jr. High. It’s a crazy replay of life 23 years ago. It’s a painful projection of how horrible life would be if someone you loved stop loving you back.

It sucks.

Have you dealt with a friend divorce? How? When? Was there a wake of children in the mess? Other friends? Mutual hangouts?

I don’t really know what to do, honestly. I’ve always moved often enough to never face a long friendship coming to an end.

And the children! MY GOD THE CHILDREN.

I find myself begging, “Can’t we just get along enough to let the children be together? Comon.”

I don’t know if we can. I hope we can be amiable, but it takes two. And right now my divorce attorney is talking to her attorney and I don’t know where this all goes later.

But god, I hope it goes soon.

Divorce sucks. However it is.

I think you know the seven oh four gals recently got together in the sunny, er, wet city of Seattle for a little reunion. Part of the plan was to take headshots for this here website. And wouldn’ya know? THE SUN! It came out!

Eiieeyyy.

I’ve long known I have this.. thing.. with my left eye. It’s not lazy, it’s just squinty. As I age, it’s getting more and more squinty.

I’m completely unable to smile without looking like a pirate.

Let’s investigate:

Exhibit 1: The Lovely Vdog

Raur, baby! Spank that Oakland ass!

Exhibit 2: The FancyPants Dawn

I know, right? Smart AND Pretty. If I didn’t lover her I’d hate her for this.

Exhibit 3:

Where?! WHERE ARE MAH EYES?

Exhibit 4: Me with V’s eyes photo-shopped in.

:: shiver ::

Exhibit 5: We tried again! Take fourteen:

Still! STILL NO EYES.

You know, I’ve been told I look like Sandra Bullock. No! I have BEEN TOLD that. So here I am with Sandra Bullock’s eyes:

Still not right.

This is getting closer:

But not very natural.

So I pull out a photo with my friend Jenny from Great Little Stories in which I go so totally PIratey it’s scary:

Eiiiyyyy

This is better:

(Ish)

This leaves me with no other solution than to pick my favorite shot of the 230 pictures we took that day as my one and only headshot:

The ENZ.

(Eiiiyyy RRRrrrr)

(Which sound is more Piratey? Eeiiiyyy or Rrrrrr)

(Does it matter?)

(Yes)

I’ve had this discussion with a lot of friends. We sit around gabbing about what we’ll be making for dinner and then the switch to our periods and then talk about tampons and pads and having a lovely period.

Right.

But I have had the “OMG, you don’t use a TAMPON” discussion more than once. And the follow up “Aren’t you afraid you’ll leave your tampon up there for like DAYS and then DIE from toxic shock? What a tragedy! “Mom dies from TAMPON. Leaves behind husband and two very young children.”

I mean, comon, tampons can KILL you. What. The. Fuck.

So the alternative, it seems, would be the pad. And while I know, I GET IT, it’s like walking around with a fucking mattress on.

But isn’t it weird to force something to stay in your body that most definitely wants to come out? That NEEDS to come out? It’s sorda like shoving a box of Kleenex up your nose when you have a cold and then being TOTALLY SHOCKED when you get a sinus infection?

So then what? What alternatives are there?

The diva cup? Which, according to one friend is apocalypse friendly. I mean, NO WASTE!

Except for the whole menstruation waste thing. And the whole “how the hell do you get that IN there and.. or.. OUT of there..”

Gag.

So it looks like we’re stuck. We’re either walking around with strings hanging out of our cooches, or we’re wearing a mattress sitting five feet higher than normal, or we’re collecting menstruation waste in a cup to save for later.

Being a woman is so glamorous.

What’s your solution?

Mine: A red tent, vodka, a bong, and sixteen pounds of chocolate.

Right.

I used to have extremely large bewbs. It’s true, I wore like six sports bras during cross country and still got black eyes. Those suckers were so large, I could barely hold my neck up right. I sordda sagged forward and let them rest on the table or desk during school and could only wear the “special” bras that cost two mortgage payments.

Then, when the insurance was great, I got them reduced. I went from DDD to “B”. Such a lovely little B. I wore tank tops and cheap bras. I ran. I stood up straight.

Then I had kids.

Holy flapping-in-the-wind, Batman. These bitches often are the star in the song, “Do your bewbs hang low, do they wobble to and fro, can you tie them in a knot, can you tie them in a bow? Can you throw them over your shoulder like a Continental Solider? Do your Bewbs. Hang. Low.”

One of the unfortunate side effect of the reduction is some loss in nipple sensation. Or, rather, that was what I understood. However, these pups can sniff wind from three states away and pucker up for a kiss. I’m often called upon to cut glass with these things.

I hate headlights.

A good friend of mine and I crossed over in to the “how well we know each other” stage when we confessed to each other we’d wear band-aids on our nipples to keep them down. BAND-AIDS.

Oh the shame.

So because I’m completely enept at acctually purchasing bras, I need your help. I come here to room 704 asking you for your best, most favorite, non-imported-from-a-small-mill-in-Russia bra. What do you love? Is it padded? And godbless how to you hide the nips? At this rate, I really should be moving back to Houston. At least there I only show sweat stains under my breasts and not nips. Lesser evil, people. Lesser evil.

About eight months ago I found a lump. I found it on my thryoid and decided either I was born one of those half female-half male types and my parents never told me OR it was no big deal.

I went with no big deal.

Earlier this week I noticed that lump again only this time it was bigger. [Insert fear! Panic! Mayem! GOOGLE DIAGNOSING] So I thought I better go get that bitch checked out. (Mostly because Twitter said so. Yo, smart twitter. Rawk.)

I went in to the doc who tugged, pushed, and fondled my lump. She asked me to swallow. I did. (Shudup, this is NOT a porn site. GOOD GRIEF naughty people. Ok fine I giggled, too.) She decided it was a lump, it was there, it needed further inspection and not only was I not crazy but it was.. well.. SOMETHING.

Yey for the not being crazy part. I think that’s the first time I heard that come out of a doctor’s mouth before. Taking notes on that.

So I go to my friend’s house and see those people in real life that pretty much keep me sane. Or at least make my insanity feel sane. Whatever. We’re talking about this, that, and whatever and I tell them about my lump. I go to the bathroom to further inspect said lump and do you know what I find?

A hair.

A long, black motherfucking hair.

Out of my neck.

Nice.

You know those hairs that just sort of GROW out of your neck? (I mean, DON’T YOU?) You get that one, long silvery shiny hair that just sort of shows up one day and OH HAI You are SEVEN FEET LONG OVER NIGHT. WTF. It’s like your neck hair folical went on acid and just crapped out a long hair.

Like that. Only on me it’s not this long shiny thing it’s sordof black next to my translucent vampire-like skin.

Little black hair. Oh you dirty bitch.

So there it is in all it’s long glory staring at me in the mirror. And I realize, it’s not just staring at me, but my doctor was right there, fondling, testing, checking next to that long black hair.

Hi doc. I shave. My fucking neck.

Maybe not, but you know? I’m pretty glad I’m completely self confident in my womanhood because otherwise I might TOTALLY be embarrassed right now.

Now excuse me, I’m off to tweeze my neck. And possibly the crevice between my boobs. If you care to know.

I grew up reciting the Apostles Creed every Sunday. I can still turn my mind off and repeat the prayer verbatim. Ironically, as I’m sitting in Sin City with a group of people I met online, I find myself creating a new creed.

A “Flinger Creed”, if you will.

We don’t believe in the Gods of Christianity, Islam, Hinduism, Christian Scientist or Judaism.

We believe in the wonder and amazement of nature and science.

We believe that kindness begets kindness.

We believe in the power of community, the strength of people caring for each other, the trickle-down effect of a single act of kindness.

We believe in family.

We believe in raising children to be free thinkers, to know they are loved for their choices and guide them to make good ones.

We believe you have the power to change your life. To create a new destiny. to mold a future of happiness.

We believe in the power of prayer, the knowledge of a greater community striving to find strength in difficulties, and the resulting wonder.

We believe you do not need a God to find your soul. We believe you don’t need a God to live Jesus’s words. We believe you don’t need a God to get to heaven on earth.

We believe your spirit lives forever as a memory in the community you create. For ever and Ever.

Amen.

This Monday, as part of the official kickoff of {W}rite-of-passage, I’m doing a story about “Character.” This challenge originally came from Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott and is the structure for which we’re working. This challenge comes after a small rant I made and decided to do something.

Welcome to my something. I hope you join in.

* Preface: A few weeks ago I had the opportunity to travel to Paris with a friend who lived in Paris and was able to give me a complete tour, on foot, in six hours. One day I’ll eventually share that story with you. For now, though, I am focusing on a character we met on our last leg of the trip waiting for the train back to Leiden. The extent of our meeting was the time it took to take this photo. I saw him from a distance. He is the perfect subject for this post.

I’ve been drunk since last Tuesday. It’s Tuesday again? Already? Oi. I hang here in the train station watching. People leave their over-shoulder bags hanging loose and the change gets my booze.  I have a corner I am known for. It’s to the left of the sandwich joint. The tourist buy the expensive sandwhiches. They don’t know you get food, better food, in first class. They never plan ahead so they are always paying more for first class.

Fucking idiots.

I have friends here. It is better than home. Home is where my grandfather beats me. He spits when I enter the flat. Always he spits. I think it is why I drink.

I have two children. I think. Possibly more. I love the ladies. OH! THE LADIES! Their sweet perfume lady parts. So delicious. Almost better than this cigaret.

Almost.

The women here are frail. They are bitches. They smack. I have soft hands. I do not work hard. The ladies want someone beautiful, someone who works hard. Someone with big balls.

I do not have any of that.

But I do have alcohol. Sweet delicious alcohol. And the change from the sandwich joint. And the tourist.

And my hand.

Get Direct Buy

I was sitting next to Stacey talking about Vegas. She is going! It’s her birthday, too! And when I said Vdog was one of my best friends she said, “OH! Are you one of the 704 girls?”

This is the best understanding of our area here that I’ve ever heard.  Best friends. Talking. Sharing. Being Real.

I’ve never been so glad we have this space.

Get Direct Buy

Got totally smashed on teh localz beerz…which was not unlike her homeland of Fogandraindola (aka SEATTLE).

But it IS totally unlike it becqausr Zserootle (Seattle) doeszn’t have teh strong beer z like HOLLAND. Hwchihc is..

AWESOME because THIS girl? This girl LOVES to drink teh beerz…with or without da gurlz. BUT she’s NEVER tasted the sweet, sweet cannabis because she’s a good Catholic girl…

Like her mother. Which, frankly, is a bit pathetic. Because the guild reaches far anz wide.

This guild is the beer drinker’s guild. There are many members of this guild, but they are predominantely named, “Flinger.”

But “Flinger” is such a well known beer among the Dutch that VDOG became a fellow household name as well as That Which ACommipnies Fliner Well. When drunkz.

Werd to that. Not only does VDOG be known for da beerz drinkin’, she’s been known to hit a …

Boobie lovin’ dude. And by “hit” she means smashin’ ‘em…

In the face with her majestic…

Clogg shoes.

ANd by Cogg shoes, we mean BOOBS. Er…wait…that doesn’t sound quite right…

Until she passed out wfrom the zdrinkin. Which you arealdy knew. Because it was late in HOlland but…

VDog was still awake in Cali. And decided to hit PUBLISH POST, typos and all.

THE ENZ