When I think about love, I think about four things.
1. A mix CD I recieved when I was 18.
2. Eternal Sunshine of The Spotless Mind
3. The moment my mom's bus left and I was alone in a new city my first day before college.
4. Ballet.
Especially when you're recently single and evaluating what exactly it is that you want out of your next potential relationship, you spend a lot of time thinking in the negative. You remember, possibly with shame and that deep feeling of embarrassment in your guts, some incident where you or your former paramour did not live up to your ideal and you tell yourself, you swear, you VOW, never again. I never want that again.
But that's the thing. That's a protest, and it's ill-organized and weak. It is not taking a stand. And although it's been attributed a million times, that old saying, If you don't stand for something, you'll fall for anything is nothing short of teeth-grindingly true.
People are so vague when you ask them, what are you really looking for in someone else? If they give you the whole truth, it's probably a clip from a movie or a snippet of a song or a feeling they had once, that connected some neural pathway to some other neural pathway and created this chemical reaction they decided was what love should be and feel like.
Like that mix CD. It was a perfect blend of songs of devotion and heartbreak. When you're 18, that's so ideal. Because you've got all these emotions and not enough places to put them. You're young, you're HUNGRY and you're terrified that life is going to pass you by and leave you with weaker memories than you'd like. And this CD, combined with the fact that I listened to it on a student tour of Europe, made the perfect recipe for that easy sort of young love. Granted, it ended like most relationships at that age do... I went away to college and started dating someone else. He was back home, still in high school and no matter how much I would listen to that CD and hear those lyrics and remember our stories, I wasn't anywhere near the level of emotional freedom and development that it would've taken to stay strong and make it work with someone in that kinda situation. But this was almost ten years ago, and I've got tons of stories where I was the bad guy... so why does it still matter?
Because that CD was one of the few gifts I've gotten that was completely for me. It wasn't a lecture or something he made for me so that I could improve my taste in music under his tutelage. It was our story, his feelings and everything he wanted to tell me but had yet to (and in a few eerie ways, it was also a pretty damn good prediction of who I'd grow up to be). It was a love letter, the only one I've ever received. And that's where it becomes an ideal, that's where it's something I want in a relationship. I want someone to know that what I like matters. To give me something that means something to them, yes, but is meant for me. Not a t-shirt you buy from a store you know I hate that I'll wear out of obligation.
Maybe things would be easier if we all really tried to look at what we WANT, rather than what we don't. At what would work instead of what just feels good in the moment. I'm a sloppy dater, like anyone else is. I meet someone (usually at the bar or a party) and instinct takes over. Adrenaline kicks in and once the flurries of texts are flying, it's hard to remember how much you like this person based on their known qualities. You just remember that this person remembers what drink you like and sent you that really witty reference to a show of which you are a huge fan. I think it's how many of us end up either ignoring huge glaring compatibility issues that plague relationships for years. I think it's how we often end up so heartbroken, saying, but how could this not work out?
I'm trying really hard, just like I have the past couple years, to really face things head on and with my eyes open. Even if this isn't the path that leads me to true love or even my next relationship, I want to know exactly what it is that I'm seeing. And I can put on that mix and hear that punk version of Every Breath You Take, Falling For You, Only In Dreams, Shiver, The Scientist, Why Do You Want Him, I Am A Rock I Am An Island, Ocean, Why Do You Want Him, Call and Answer, Only In Dreams and most of all, Alison and remember that once, someone looked at me with their eyes open and how goddamn amazing it felt. And that it's exactly how I think part of it, maybe a much smaller part than now, should've been.
After all, inspite of my fuck ups and silly ways, my aim IS true.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Monday, October 24, 2011
Isn't There A Kitten, Stuck Up A Tree Somewhere?
Well, slowly but surely my heart is healing, kiddos. I've gotten more of myself back in the past couple weeks than I would've expected, enough to get my serious flirt on a couple times.
But the other night, in a heart to heart conversation with a very dear friend, it occured to me that the same issues I've always had in the past when pursuing The Mens are still very present. This entry is about one of them that confuses me the most. It begins, as most thing should, with me listening to an Ani DiFranco song at the tender age of sixteen.
I am not a pretty girl.
That is not what I do.
I ain't no damsel in distress,
And I don't need to be rescued.
So put me down, punk.
Wouldn't you prefer a maiden fair?
Isn't there a kitten, stuck up a tree somewhere?
And that's when I realised, hepcats, the little lesson that would beat me in the face again and again. I am not any of those things. I have never been the kind of girl who can simply be rescued by anyone. And over and over again, I've realised that what I want, more than anything else, is a guy whose will is stronger than my own. Even back then, when I was young and full of horomones and totally confused, I knew that's what I wanted.
I remember that time of innocence, before losing my virginity, before smoking my first cigarette, before I even considered drinking or really cussing or much of anything about what love was like. Sure, I'd had a couple of boyfriends. I'd had crushes that didn't reciprocate. But I'd never had a heartbreak. I'd never really been hurt. My first real heartache was looming five years in my future and I was still young, confused and blissfully unaware. But I was not, even at that tender somewhat undamaged age, a fragile flower. And hearing this wasn't about a boy who'd hurt me. This was important because it was the first real glimpse of who I would become and, also, an all too subtle reference to how many boys and men I'd later meet would react to me.
Because most of the time, loves, most of the time... that's what boys do want. A maiden fair, someone delicate and doe-eyed that they can impress with their wit and wiles and sweep cleanly off their feet. Someone who looks up at them, clinging to their arm and you just know they see it: that guy's Inner Rock Star, A Knight In Shining Armor, A Big Brave Man to Save Them.
And I am just not that kinda girl. And while that fact has honestly hurt more men that've gotten involved with me, it's hurt me plenty. And it's what's been said to me so many times I can't count. And it's not just me. Any of my strong-willed, independent female friends could tell you the same story. And the critique comes in so many forms.
But the other night, in a heart to heart conversation with a very dear friend, it occured to me that the same issues I've always had in the past when pursuing The Mens are still very present. This entry is about one of them that confuses me the most. It begins, as most thing should, with me listening to an Ani DiFranco song at the tender age of sixteen.
I am not a pretty girl.
That is not what I do.
I ain't no damsel in distress,
And I don't need to be rescued.
So put me down, punk.
Wouldn't you prefer a maiden fair?
Isn't there a kitten, stuck up a tree somewhere?
And that's when I realised, hepcats, the little lesson that would beat me in the face again and again. I am not any of those things. I have never been the kind of girl who can simply be rescued by anyone. And over and over again, I've realised that what I want, more than anything else, is a guy whose will is stronger than my own. Even back then, when I was young and full of horomones and totally confused, I knew that's what I wanted.
I remember that time of innocence, before losing my virginity, before smoking my first cigarette, before I even considered drinking or really cussing or much of anything about what love was like. Sure, I'd had a couple of boyfriends. I'd had crushes that didn't reciprocate. But I'd never had a heartbreak. I'd never really been hurt. My first real heartache was looming five years in my future and I was still young, confused and blissfully unaware. But I was not, even at that tender somewhat undamaged age, a fragile flower. And hearing this wasn't about a boy who'd hurt me. This was important because it was the first real glimpse of who I would become and, also, an all too subtle reference to how many boys and men I'd later meet would react to me.
Because most of the time, loves, most of the time... that's what boys do want. A maiden fair, someone delicate and doe-eyed that they can impress with their wit and wiles and sweep cleanly off their feet. Someone who looks up at them, clinging to their arm and you just know they see it: that guy's Inner Rock Star, A Knight In Shining Armor, A Big Brave Man to Save Them.
And I am just not that kinda girl. And while that fact has honestly hurt more men that've gotten involved with me, it's hurt me plenty. And it's what's been said to me so many times I can't count. And it's not just me. Any of my strong-willed, independent female friends could tell you the same story. And the critique comes in so many forms.
- Getting Bro'd off by prospective beaux who know good and damn well that you're interested in them, who for some reason or another just can't accept a girl who expresses herself "like a man." So they only way they can reasonably interact with her is to nullify her gender, to act is if she appreciates the world solely from a manly perspective and treat her like one of the guys, regardless of how many mixed signals that results in. I am hugely feminine. I wear heels, know how to properly apply make up and own a nice, frilly and varied selection of lingere. But I also cuss, love punk rock, and don't suffer fools in silence. Many guys, especially the timid, so-called sensitive ones have attempted to flirt with me and use this technique at the same time, which mostly results in me being pissed off because the guy who tried to make out with me last night is the same guy stage whispering, "Damn! Did you see that girl who just walked in?! No WAY a girl like that is here alone."
- Being told by former siginificant others what a turn off your independence had always been. That's always such a backhanded blow, too. The refuge of a coward. Because they never mention it in a way that relates to anything else. Because it's usually something they don't say to your face until a screaming fight or ages after it would've been relevant in your relationship. It takes so many delightful forms, too! Being called a ballbuster, a cunt, a bitch, an ice princess, or even more politely, just plain difficult? In my opinion, it all boils down to that we scared them and make them feel like less of a man. And I gotta say. Being called emasculating hurts just as much as being told how hard it is to impress you by someone who then says they can't wait to "be fascinated by someone." As if being well-informed and in control of your life immediately removes you from that list of people. As if the goal of trying to be an actual, strong human being instead of some shrinking, soft-spoken violet nullifies any sense of mystery you could've cultivated. Guess what, guys? If a strong or difficult woman is talking to you, flirting with you, she's damn impressed. She's in control enough to approach you head on with both eyes open and still come back for more. I find that a thousand times more appealing, personally, when someone who actually knows what they want is still willing to chase me.
- Having to be the one to end an interlude or flirtation and then getting called any number of pejoratives for doing so. When you see something's not working but you're the only one willing to take some measure to rectify it, you end up being the bad guy, even if you're just trying to save the friendship and some heartache. This one goes for both genders. But I've definitely been told things as lovely and varied as that I am a heartless bitch who's scared of being hurt so I hide behind this cold facade and that I was just using someone for money, when in reality, they were unemployed, so I paid for my half and theirs most times. This one is especially hard when you were clear from the beginning that you weren't interested in anything beyond friendship.
- The guys who claim to respect your logic and rather rational sensibilities to attempt to play you, as if your sterling qualities of strength make it okay to simply want to use you or dawdle with other competitors, but still manage to find their way to you with startling regularity. Because you understand. Because you should be satisfied with these crumbs, since you get it. Since being logical means you aren't emotional, right? Yeah... These guys absolutely are the worst because they never quite make it clear what they're after, they never flat out say what they do or don't want.
For someone who is genuinely interested in love, these are rather trying things. Because in spite of some of my more unsavory misadventures, I am a romantic. I really would like to fall in love, with all the trimmings. But not in a storybook way... how boring must happily ever after be, if they can't even be bothered to tell you what happens? Even as a kid, I figured that must be why the story stops. And while I'm damn good at being someone's Number One Fan, I'm fully capable of doing so without having to be a mealy mouthed little wallflower. And I don't know if you've noticed, gentlemen, but there aren't a lot of kitten skeletons dangling from limbs. They can figure it out on their own. And so can I.
I know exactly what I want for the most part and I'm not afraid to pursue it. But it makes it really hard sometimes and you can get a little heartsore. After dude after dude who thinks you're scary or wants to just "hang out" without even telling you what the fuck that means, after getting told over and over again that you just don't make someone feel needed enough and even flat out that who you are and what you're like makes you less attractive... well. It's one hit after another and you start to feel a little bit like a booth at a carnival, where everyone gets a shot.
It makes it a little hard to remember what you're doing this for, that there is a point to the adventure and fucking up to find out who you are that goes a little deeper than just being able to tell hilarious stories on your blog. Because maybe it's about watching how you change and wanting to look back and see all the stupid crap you put yourself through and remember the good and not so good times. It's important to remember that if you're trying to work through all the issues that cause you to make stupid decisions, you've gotta be doing it for yourself. You gotta know who you want to be, especially if that's different than who you are currently.
And maybe that's why I have this blog. So I have something I look at and say, yes, I made these decisions. And I'm willing to hold my head up and approach people with that in mind. If that loses me points with a guy, because I'm willing to be the first one to initiate contact or that I live this completely absurd life, so be it. But right now, honestly, it's a little lonely. 'Cause the other side of that is that although I have no problem finding someone out there who's interested in a recurring role in my bedroom, I also haven't been asked on a date in about four years. And I'm not sure if it's my personality, my independence, modern romance or the guys I interact with that're to blame. Or none of the above. Because while I don't need to be rescued, I do believe love saves us all. And I'm the perfect person to be swept off her feet... because when I get swept, I stay swept and you'll always know exactly how much weight you're catching.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not ready to start something serious with anyone. But today, for the first time in a long time, I can see that I will be sometime not too far ahead. And I have to believe that can happen again. Like one of my heroes says, I could never give up on the possibility of falling for someone who'd make all those pies I took in the face worthwhile. And while what I write it makes it obvious that on the regular, I'm adding tallies to the Forever Alone score, I also think that this is sort of why, for a very certain type of guy, a guy who will not make me suffer the indignities of just hanging out, who will love me and laugh his ass off at all my stories, a guy who will be a stand up sort of adult, the same 'sort of' adult that I am; for this guy, who I'm praying is out there having his own adventures to share with me, this is exactly why I am Marriage Material. 'Cause if there's one thing all these stories prove, it's that I'm not afraid of being exactly who I am and I know how to adventure. It will be a partnership and that's something I want, more than I'd ever want to get saved by some asshole in a tin suit, because in my fairytale, we won't ever have to stop being rock stars to worry about who rescues who, we'll sweep each other off our feet and be able to hold tight all the way down, 'cause we'll be falling together.
I know exactly what I want for the most part and I'm not afraid to pursue it. But it makes it really hard sometimes and you can get a little heartsore. After dude after dude who thinks you're scary or wants to just "hang out" without even telling you what the fuck that means, after getting told over and over again that you just don't make someone feel needed enough and even flat out that who you are and what you're like makes you less attractive... well. It's one hit after another and you start to feel a little bit like a booth at a carnival, where everyone gets a shot.
It makes it a little hard to remember what you're doing this for, that there is a point to the adventure and fucking up to find out who you are that goes a little deeper than just being able to tell hilarious stories on your blog. Because maybe it's about watching how you change and wanting to look back and see all the stupid crap you put yourself through and remember the good and not so good times. It's important to remember that if you're trying to work through all the issues that cause you to make stupid decisions, you've gotta be doing it for yourself. You gotta know who you want to be, especially if that's different than who you are currently.
And maybe that's why I have this blog. So I have something I look at and say, yes, I made these decisions. And I'm willing to hold my head up and approach people with that in mind. If that loses me points with a guy, because I'm willing to be the first one to initiate contact or that I live this completely absurd life, so be it. But right now, honestly, it's a little lonely. 'Cause the other side of that is that although I have no problem finding someone out there who's interested in a recurring role in my bedroom, I also haven't been asked on a date in about four years. And I'm not sure if it's my personality, my independence, modern romance or the guys I interact with that're to blame. Or none of the above. Because while I don't need to be rescued, I do believe love saves us all. And I'm the perfect person to be swept off her feet... because when I get swept, I stay swept and you'll always know exactly how much weight you're catching.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not ready to start something serious with anyone. But today, for the first time in a long time, I can see that I will be sometime not too far ahead. And I have to believe that can happen again. Like one of my heroes says, I could never give up on the possibility of falling for someone who'd make all those pies I took in the face worthwhile. And while what I write it makes it obvious that on the regular, I'm adding tallies to the Forever Alone score, I also think that this is sort of why, for a very certain type of guy, a guy who will not make me suffer the indignities of just hanging out, who will love me and laugh his ass off at all my stories, a guy who will be a stand up sort of adult, the same 'sort of' adult that I am; for this guy, who I'm praying is out there having his own adventures to share with me, this is exactly why I am Marriage Material. 'Cause if there's one thing all these stories prove, it's that I'm not afraid of being exactly who I am and I know how to adventure. It will be a partnership and that's something I want, more than I'd ever want to get saved by some asshole in a tin suit, because in my fairytale, we won't ever have to stop being rock stars to worry about who rescues who, we'll sweep each other off our feet and be able to hold tight all the way down, 'cause we'll be falling together.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
A Heartwarming Story About The Real Meaning of Friendship.
Just as a little caveat to this story... I have no shame. I'm really, really blunt and do not often censor myself, especially when it's on a blog I'm keeping that was inspired by a break up. So do not read this post if you have delicate sensibilities and do not want to hear about my vagina, my period and a very stupid situation I managed to get myself involved in. I assure you, the details could be much gorier, so don't say I didn't warn you.
Having never been comfortable with any of the typical women's products available, I finally took the plunge last year and tried the Instead soft cup. And oh my god. . I adore using them and I think they're the bee's knees, the cat's meow, an all around noun's noun. If I were asked to choose between them and deodorant, I'd honestly hesitate... but I'd pick deodorant because I'm terrified of smelling bad. But, that being said, if you're me and you're sticking something inside yourself, hilarity will in fact ensue. Everything that happened in this story was ENTIRELY MY FAULT. Do not take this story as a story of typical use, I have never had a problem with the design, feel or comfort of the cup nor with it malfunctioning within the parameters of proper use. That being said, on with the story.
So the other day, due to a series of incidents, I managed to have my cup .... well, to put it delicately, wedged in my bajingo. I went to remove it and... no dice. Ordinarily removal involves hooking your finger around the rim of the cup and gently pulling. My fingers could barely graze the edge of the cup and I thought, ok, maybe I'm irritating it and making the situation worse. I thought no big deal, I was trying to take it out early anyway and there's not a risk of TSS like there is with tampons.
So I waited a while and failed to remove it again. And I think to myself, huh, that's weird. And it really bothers me this time. I realise that it's shifted back inside me so that it's set too far back. Nothing a little angling won't solve! So I shift positions a little and put one foot on the toilet seat as I'm standing in my bathroom. And still nothing. I'm not sure what I'm doing wrong beyond my fingers simply being too short and I decide to experiment a little. So I lie down on the bathroom floor. I sort of squat in the bathtub. I sit on the toilet. And absolutely nothing I'm doing is helping. Instead, I'm pretty confident that I'm pushing it just a little further in with each attempt. Around the time I find myself on all fours on my bed attempting to pull it out from behind, I start to think, ok... I might actually have a problem here.
At this point, in between frantically fingering myself, I text my best friend, explain the situation to her and she calmly says, oh, yeah, I've had that happen. You just need to break the seal. It's easy. Maybe try a spoon. But very very carefully.
Now, gentle reader, I don't know how much experience you've had with sticking inanimate objects in your nethers, but let me tell you, anything metal that isn't being handled by a doctor shouldn't have any business in your ladyparts. I know this. My logical, every day brain knows this full and damn well. But three hours into a heavy panic, anything seems logical. You read that right. I'd been wracking my brain for THREE HOURS trying to get this stupid thing out. I will leave the ensuing attempts mercifully vague, but don't be surprised to know that I attempted to stick a spoon in my vagina and it did not fit.
If you're the kind of logical and well balanced person I hope you are, at this point, you're asking yourself, why didn't you go to the emergency room? And the answer to that is a two, no, a three-parter. First of all, although I am insured, I've yet to pay my co-pay and doctors is expensive, kids. Second. I was really, really convinced I could get it out. That I could circumvent physiology and outsmart not only my internal structure but the length of my fingers with cold logic. And it ended as well as one would imagine, which is pretty damn poorly. And third, well... I'm sure I'm not the first person who's been in this situation. You can have sex with these things in and I hear it's not noticable AT all, so I'd imagine removal is a pretty simple and routine process at the county ER located a few minutes from my house. But damnit, I was embarrassed, ya'll. It's one thing to tell this as a STORY to friends and strangers. But when you're contemplating being spreadeagled on a cold exam table in front of someone who's possibly pulled glass or maggots or god knows what out of an open wound in the last twenty four hours, you might feel a little squeamish. Plus, since it's a very non-life threatening condition, who knows how long I'd have to wait? I really, really didn't wanna go to the doctor.
So what else is a girl to do? I can't get it out by myself and I am not going to the doctor. Oh yes. We come at last to the audience participation portion of my emergency. And let me tell you, it's a pretty illuminating looking at your life when you sit and evaluate which of your friends are most likely to not only understand how you got yourself into such a situation in the first place but would also be willing to stick their finger in your hooha and pull out a feminine hygiene product. It's eye-opening.
I mean, look at your list of friends. Hell, look at your text history for the past day. These are people you confide your secrets to, the people you try to impress with your wit and who you feel the need to update in a nearly instant fashion, probably on the daily. How many of them would you even be willing to ASK to help you with something this intimate? How many do you think would say yes? And more importantly: how many would you say yes to if presented with the same request? Your "Finger a Friend" lifeline is something you probably aren't even aware that you're earning daily, but apparently for each of us, there comes a time where you have to ask someone, "so listen... how close are we really?"
Most of my very close friends have moved away in the past few years, so I'm going through a list of people who've known me around a year or for less than three months.It takes me a few minutes to go through my phonebook and pick the most likely candidates that I'd be comfortable asking. One girl flat out says no. The next is literally elbows deep in her screen-printing workshop and will not be available for hours (though the image of her hands coated in red ink made it seem like she was rooting for me, at least). Another had left her phone at Target and didn't respond to my plea til a couple days after. My very last chance call goes to voicemail and I'm having to face facts, it's hospital o'clock. Prospects are not looking good and finally I text one of my most recent friends to keep me company while I wait for god knows how long.
Now this is a person I barely know. We may be eskimo buddies, but we are not super close.
me: hey wanna keep me company while I go to the hospital?
amazing friend: well, yeah, do you want some company or some help?
me: depends on what kind of help you mean...
amazing friend: well, my fingers are longer than yours.
me: I'll be there in ten minutes.
me: make it fifteen. I'm gonna wash up.
So I'm nearly in tears from relief, I drive over to her house, giddy at the prospect of the nightmare being over. She's of course shared the story with her three roommates and while the two boys stay downstairs, heavily engrossed in the copy of X-Men Legends II that I'd loaned them, she, her female roommate and I all head upstairs to do a pre-shot. Pinnacle Cake Vodka is quickly imbibed and we step into the bathroom where I remove my pants and sit on the toilet, the towel I'd asked for to modestly drape myself with is quickly cast aside because, well, she's gotta see it to figure out where she's going. And at first, she crouches in front of me, just looking. She says, Ok, I have one of these, but I'm not sure where to start. The instant she touches me, we all jump up and look at each other very uncomfortably. My pants are put back on and we go to do another shot. The boys clap because they think, oh, it's loud and giggly, they've clearly accomplished something. Nope. Sorry, boys.
We head back into the bathroom trying to figure out where I'm going to sit for best positioning, because the toilet's not cutting it. Her roommate hits on the small ledge that's built into their tub behind the faucet. Various shampoos and soaps are cleared away and before you know it, I'm bare-assed on the ledge with my friend's finger inside me while her roommate looks awkwardly on, my legs braced against the sink and the shower wall. I'm not sure exactly what to do. I can't really give her directions because I can't really feel where it is. I don't know if I should say something encouraging, because what am I gonna say? This is way better than the first time a guy fingered me? So I start to babble some small talk to her roommate while she digs around because, as she put it, "boy that's really in there!"
The suddenly, a look of equally blended triumph and disgust that was oddly reminiscent of the look on someone's face when they pull the bag of giblets out of a frozen turkey crossed her face. She's done it! I'm free! And it's in the bathtub!
As my friend frantically washed her hands and I scrambled clean up the bathtub while being conscious that my naked lower half was on full display still, I was struck by how normal I felt after what had just happened went down. I mean, on the one hand, yeah, it's bizarre and my friend has now been face to face in a brightly lit room with the entirety of my bidness, but she did it out of love. She helped me because she knew I needed her. That's huge. Once we're all cleaned up and put back together, my superhero friend, her roommate and I celebrated with a cigarette on the front porch and a heart to heart about some serious issues that had been plaguing people we know. I felt closer to them at that moment there, and after hugs ensued, along with much laughter and fuzzy heads induced by Pinnacle Cake Vodka, I realised, this is something I'd missed for a long time. Knowing that I could trust someone and knowing that just like I've got their back, they've got mine. Just knowing, just knowing that I have a friend that I can turn to and not only will they laugh at the mess I make of myself, but they'll also dive right in after me and help me fix it. That's kind of thing you can't take lightly. That's the kind of thing that real love is made of and I swear, I'll never forget.
Because at the end of the day, your heart might be broken and your hands might get bloody, and yeah, you might just end up half-naked with your legs spread apart in your friend's bathroom. But damnit. If you've got friends who will finger you when it's really necessary, what the hell else do you really need?
Having never been comfortable with any of the typical women's products available, I finally took the plunge last year and tried the Instead soft cup. And oh my god. . I adore using them and I think they're the bee's knees, the cat's meow, an all around noun's noun. If I were asked to choose between them and deodorant, I'd honestly hesitate... but I'd pick deodorant because I'm terrified of smelling bad. But, that being said, if you're me and you're sticking something inside yourself, hilarity will in fact ensue. Everything that happened in this story was ENTIRELY MY FAULT. Do not take this story as a story of typical use, I have never had a problem with the design, feel or comfort of the cup nor with it malfunctioning within the parameters of proper use. That being said, on with the story.
So the other day, due to a series of incidents, I managed to have my cup .... well, to put it delicately, wedged in my bajingo. I went to remove it and... no dice. Ordinarily removal involves hooking your finger around the rim of the cup and gently pulling. My fingers could barely graze the edge of the cup and I thought, ok, maybe I'm irritating it and making the situation worse. I thought no big deal, I was trying to take it out early anyway and there's not a risk of TSS like there is with tampons.
So I waited a while and failed to remove it again. And I think to myself, huh, that's weird. And it really bothers me this time. I realise that it's shifted back inside me so that it's set too far back. Nothing a little angling won't solve! So I shift positions a little and put one foot on the toilet seat as I'm standing in my bathroom. And still nothing. I'm not sure what I'm doing wrong beyond my fingers simply being too short and I decide to experiment a little. So I lie down on the bathroom floor. I sort of squat in the bathtub. I sit on the toilet. And absolutely nothing I'm doing is helping. Instead, I'm pretty confident that I'm pushing it just a little further in with each attempt. Around the time I find myself on all fours on my bed attempting to pull it out from behind, I start to think, ok... I might actually have a problem here.
At this point, in between frantically fingering myself, I text my best friend, explain the situation to her and she calmly says, oh, yeah, I've had that happen. You just need to break the seal. It's easy. Maybe try a spoon. But very very carefully.
Now, gentle reader, I don't know how much experience you've had with sticking inanimate objects in your nethers, but let me tell you, anything metal that isn't being handled by a doctor shouldn't have any business in your ladyparts. I know this. My logical, every day brain knows this full and damn well. But three hours into a heavy panic, anything seems logical. You read that right. I'd been wracking my brain for THREE HOURS trying to get this stupid thing out. I will leave the ensuing attempts mercifully vague, but don't be surprised to know that I attempted to stick a spoon in my vagina and it did not fit.
If you're the kind of logical and well balanced person I hope you are, at this point, you're asking yourself, why didn't you go to the emergency room? And the answer to that is a two, no, a three-parter. First of all, although I am insured, I've yet to pay my co-pay and doctors is expensive, kids. Second. I was really, really convinced I could get it out. That I could circumvent physiology and outsmart not only my internal structure but the length of my fingers with cold logic. And it ended as well as one would imagine, which is pretty damn poorly. And third, well... I'm sure I'm not the first person who's been in this situation. You can have sex with these things in and I hear it's not noticable AT all, so I'd imagine removal is a pretty simple and routine process at the county ER located a few minutes from my house. But damnit, I was embarrassed, ya'll. It's one thing to tell this as a STORY to friends and strangers. But when you're contemplating being spreadeagled on a cold exam table in front of someone who's possibly pulled glass or maggots or god knows what out of an open wound in the last twenty four hours, you might feel a little squeamish. Plus, since it's a very non-life threatening condition, who knows how long I'd have to wait? I really, really didn't wanna go to the doctor.
So what else is a girl to do? I can't get it out by myself and I am not going to the doctor. Oh yes. We come at last to the audience participation portion of my emergency. And let me tell you, it's a pretty illuminating looking at your life when you sit and evaluate which of your friends are most likely to not only understand how you got yourself into such a situation in the first place but would also be willing to stick their finger in your hooha and pull out a feminine hygiene product. It's eye-opening.
I mean, look at your list of friends. Hell, look at your text history for the past day. These are people you confide your secrets to, the people you try to impress with your wit and who you feel the need to update in a nearly instant fashion, probably on the daily. How many of them would you even be willing to ASK to help you with something this intimate? How many do you think would say yes? And more importantly: how many would you say yes to if presented with the same request? Your "Finger a Friend" lifeline is something you probably aren't even aware that you're earning daily, but apparently for each of us, there comes a time where you have to ask someone, "so listen... how close are we really?"
Most of my very close friends have moved away in the past few years, so I'm going through a list of people who've known me around a year or for less than three months.It takes me a few minutes to go through my phonebook and pick the most likely candidates that I'd be comfortable asking. One girl flat out says no. The next is literally elbows deep in her screen-printing workshop and will not be available for hours (though the image of her hands coated in red ink made it seem like she was rooting for me, at least). Another had left her phone at Target and didn't respond to my plea til a couple days after. My very last chance call goes to voicemail and I'm having to face facts, it's hospital o'clock. Prospects are not looking good and finally I text one of my most recent friends to keep me company while I wait for god knows how long.
Now this is a person I barely know. We may be eskimo buddies, but we are not super close.
me: hey wanna keep me company while I go to the hospital?
amazing friend: well, yeah, do you want some company or some help?
me: depends on what kind of help you mean...
amazing friend: well, my fingers are longer than yours.
me: I'll be there in ten minutes.
me: make it fifteen. I'm gonna wash up.
So I'm nearly in tears from relief, I drive over to her house, giddy at the prospect of the nightmare being over. She's of course shared the story with her three roommates and while the two boys stay downstairs, heavily engrossed in the copy of X-Men Legends II that I'd loaned them, she, her female roommate and I all head upstairs to do a pre-shot. Pinnacle Cake Vodka is quickly imbibed and we step into the bathroom where I remove my pants and sit on the toilet, the towel I'd asked for to modestly drape myself with is quickly cast aside because, well, she's gotta see it to figure out where she's going. And at first, she crouches in front of me, just looking. She says, Ok, I have one of these, but I'm not sure where to start. The instant she touches me, we all jump up and look at each other very uncomfortably. My pants are put back on and we go to do another shot. The boys clap because they think, oh, it's loud and giggly, they've clearly accomplished something. Nope. Sorry, boys.
We head back into the bathroom trying to figure out where I'm going to sit for best positioning, because the toilet's not cutting it. Her roommate hits on the small ledge that's built into their tub behind the faucet. Various shampoos and soaps are cleared away and before you know it, I'm bare-assed on the ledge with my friend's finger inside me while her roommate looks awkwardly on, my legs braced against the sink and the shower wall. I'm not sure exactly what to do. I can't really give her directions because I can't really feel where it is. I don't know if I should say something encouraging, because what am I gonna say? This is way better than the first time a guy fingered me? So I start to babble some small talk to her roommate while she digs around because, as she put it, "boy that's really in there!"
The suddenly, a look of equally blended triumph and disgust that was oddly reminiscent of the look on someone's face when they pull the bag of giblets out of a frozen turkey crossed her face. She's done it! I'm free! And it's in the bathtub!
As my friend frantically washed her hands and I scrambled clean up the bathtub while being conscious that my naked lower half was on full display still, I was struck by how normal I felt after what had just happened went down. I mean, on the one hand, yeah, it's bizarre and my friend has now been face to face in a brightly lit room with the entirety of my bidness, but she did it out of love. She helped me because she knew I needed her. That's huge. Once we're all cleaned up and put back together, my superhero friend, her roommate and I celebrated with a cigarette on the front porch and a heart to heart about some serious issues that had been plaguing people we know. I felt closer to them at that moment there, and after hugs ensued, along with much laughter and fuzzy heads induced by Pinnacle Cake Vodka, I realised, this is something I'd missed for a long time. Knowing that I could trust someone and knowing that just like I've got their back, they've got mine. Just knowing, just knowing that I have a friend that I can turn to and not only will they laugh at the mess I make of myself, but they'll also dive right in after me and help me fix it. That's kind of thing you can't take lightly. That's the kind of thing that real love is made of and I swear, I'll never forget.
Because at the end of the day, your heart might be broken and your hands might get bloody, and yeah, you might just end up half-naked with your legs spread apart in your friend's bathroom. But damnit. If you've got friends who will finger you when it's really necessary, what the hell else do you really need?
Monday, October 17, 2011
What this blog started out as a was a mostly self righteous attempt at getting over a break up. Like all recently scorned and single people do, I imagined my ex reading some hiiiiiiiiiilariously phrased and unsueably veiled reference to an interaction between us and suddenly realising how wrong he was. Suddenly melting in the face of my ineffable wit and Becoming A Better Person. Then I could nod to myself and preen and be so damn proud of how inspiring I am.
Thankfully, all the blogs I would begin to write that were of that ilk never really got off the ground. Even better, it didn't take me that long to realise how much I didn't give a damn about what kind of person he does or doesn't become, it doesn't affect me any longer. Who he was to me is very different than who he is to me now and I can cherish those memories... even if I still randomly get the urge to cry in the shower or duct tape cold cuts to his bicycle, including on the spokes and handlebars.
And the reason I couldn't write anything like that is that, well, that's not who I am, regardless of anything that may've been said to me that inspired this level of neurosis and that unique desire of a dumped person for the satisfaction of knowing you'd put someone in their place, that you'd hurt them the way they hurt you. It's natural to want that but it will never be healthy to seek it out in a way that damages another person. And no matter how much I'm hurting and trying desperately to heal right now, I will never be that person.
Instead, what you're getting is very different. It's still very much the trials and tribulations of a single girl. But it's also about me, the ridiculous dichotomies in my head, the stupid ass situations I manage to faceplant into and how I'm learning to live with these things with some sort of grace... not a lot, mind you, but it's better than it was. And while believe me oh, believe me, there will be stories about dating and boys and all those silly men who done me wrong.... this isn't about that and I don't hate those people and I'm not doing this to hurt anyone's reputation or feelings. But it will be true, all of it. And God bless, it's my life.
So, thanks, Most Recent Ex.
I guess I can let stuff go after all.
(Whoops... you see? Told you it was just a work in progress.)
Thankfully, all the blogs I would begin to write that were of that ilk never really got off the ground. Even better, it didn't take me that long to realise how much I didn't give a damn about what kind of person he does or doesn't become, it doesn't affect me any longer. Who he was to me is very different than who he is to me now and I can cherish those memories... even if I still randomly get the urge to cry in the shower or duct tape cold cuts to his bicycle, including on the spokes and handlebars.
And the reason I couldn't write anything like that is that, well, that's not who I am, regardless of anything that may've been said to me that inspired this level of neurosis and that unique desire of a dumped person for the satisfaction of knowing you'd put someone in their place, that you'd hurt them the way they hurt you. It's natural to want that but it will never be healthy to seek it out in a way that damages another person. And no matter how much I'm hurting and trying desperately to heal right now, I will never be that person.
Instead, what you're getting is very different. It's still very much the trials and tribulations of a single girl. But it's also about me, the ridiculous dichotomies in my head, the stupid ass situations I manage to faceplant into and how I'm learning to live with these things with some sort of grace... not a lot, mind you, but it's better than it was. And while believe me oh, believe me, there will be stories about dating and boys and all those silly men who done me wrong.... this isn't about that and I don't hate those people and I'm not doing this to hurt anyone's reputation or feelings. But it will be true, all of it. And God bless, it's my life.
So, thanks, Most Recent Ex.
I guess I can let stuff go after all.
(Whoops... you see? Told you it was just a work in progress.)
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