Does This Make You Uncomfortable?

I just can’t. Even.

Look, I’m sure you’re all fucking tired of listening to us bitches talk about Trump saying “pussy”.  Or about Dani I’mThePlaymateOfTheYearDumbass WhateverHerLastNameIs with her fat shaming and sexual assault of that woman she took a photo of.

Well, guess what? This bitch gets to complain about the bullshit too.   Surprise! Continue reading


Bad Mom Monday: Artwork 

Bad Mom Monday: a weekly post about why I might be a bad mom.  
My son, Monkey, likes to take photos and draw.  Today I shall leave you with very few words and let the pictures pretty much speak for themselves.  And you really all should get your minds out of the gutter.  That is a MOTORCYCLE and a NERF GUN.  Geesh.  

Why My Razors Rust

imageIs shaving really necessary?  I mean, if I wear pants and sleeved shirts for eternity, can I be exempt from body shaving?

I was helluv excited the summer before I started junior high (that meant 7th grade in the olden days) and mom told me I could now wear mascara (blue!) and I could shave my legs.  And I did shave my legs.  I shaved my arms once, too, when I went to a party where my 8th grade ex-boyfriend was going to show up so I could totally make him jealous with my super model smooth skin.  Then the hair started to grow back and I was afraid I was going to have man stubble on my arms forever.

But the last two times I can remember shaving?  Sometime a year ago.  And the day before Abalone was born in 2011.  It was a scheduled c-section and I didn’t want to subject some poor nurse to my leg fur tickling her while she tried to shave my mons pubis in prep for birthing my second crotch fruit.

Stop yelling at me.  I can hear you all the way in Washington.  No.  I don’t shave my bikini.  My pubes are retro, bitches.  This muff is vintage.  (and now my co-workers know all about my hygiene habits because I was an idiot and gave them my blog address) (and I swore to myself that I wouldn’t reference my vagina area two posts in a row.  I lie to myself a lot.)

But that’s not the beginning of this story (it never is.  Carlos Mencia jokes that women have to know all the details.  “Did you hit the snooze button?” (you had to be there to know why this is funny) This is why my dildo hustling parties took 5 hours.  I had to give all the details.  Took longer with the drunk ones.  My gawd, they never shut up!).  Anyway, the beginning is that I was in the bathroom, itching my armpit (why do these stories always start in the bathroom.  I swear this was not the niche I was going for).

Side note:  I’ve always had a hypothesis that body hair can only grow so long and then your genetic code shuts it off.  If this were false, well I’d have 10 foot hair down there.  Except for facial hair.  That stuff has no limitations and is evil.  WHY?  Why does it prefer to grow out of moles and hide in the shadow of my second chin until I finally spot it and it’s 6 inches long (true story)?

So I felt a tickling in my armpit.  And I’ll share that I have an explosion of white girl afro.  The hair, on my head, is curly, thick, and there’s a lot of it.  this means that there’s also a lot that ends up down my back and somehow lodged into the weave of my shirt, traveling to unexplained lands like my under boob, or an armpit.  So, I figured this hair was from my head.  And I yanked.

The fuck it wasn’t.

If I don’t have a pus filled hair bubble tomorrow, I’ll be surprised.  And I’ll have to ask DH for help and he’ll either laugh at the irony from all those times I’ve harassed him to let me pop a zit on him (  Or he’ll grab something freakish from the first aid kit and I’ll be missing some lymph nodes by the end of the week.

You don’t have to feel sorry for me.  I’m aware that I’ve created my own nightmare.

But I faithfully swear that next week I will not talk about vaginas or vulvas.

Eh, who am I kidding.  I can’t promise that.

My First Post Is About Vaginas

dreamstimefree_148418My first post is about vaginas?  Well, not all of them, just mine, and a menstrual cup.  It’s also called a “Diva Cup”.

Why “diva”?  Is Mariah going to spring forth from my vag and serenade me with “Touch My Body”?  Why not call it the “Dare Devil Cup?”

Nope. Diva. Got it.

Well, I might not have turned into an operatic singer, but I sure had some choice words while trying the cup out.

It all started with a FB Group convo with some fitness friends.

Did you know there’s a website with all the measurements of the various brands of cups?  I didn’t.  I found out from my Nerd Fitness sisters of such an existence.  For science, I went to this site and decided on a cup to try.  Except the cup I wanted is only shipped from the UK.  Fuck it, Amazon it was.  So I went with one of the few options I could find with Amazon Prime. You’d think Amazon would have more options.  For goodness sake, they have this.

But that’s not the beginning of the story.  The beginning is that the cup was actually introduced years and years ago, back when I was a teenager (we’re talking decades here), back when the only manufacturer who made it called it “Instead”.

Instead of what?  Instead of my period?!  Yay.  I’ll take it!

It’s so easy, they said.  You just pop it right out, they said.


That fucking thing put me on the floor.  It pummeled my cervix as I tried to yank it out, it slipped through my fingers over and over, until I felt like passing out and was curled around the toilet like a drunken floozie back from an all night binge fest. Fuck Instead.

And then I discovered that the next generation of menstrual cups have stems.  Stems!

The day came for our date, Big M and I (M for Mariah) It was time to test drive our relationship and see about leveling up.  But because I’m not a dirty whore, I boiled M for 5 minutes (and let it cool down) before I used it.
And then I lubed up M gingerly.

Side note: I used to hustle dildos for fun, and if there’s anything I’ve learned, if you want your silicone toys to stay in tip top shape, you’ll use a toy cleaner and water based lube.  And since Big M is another silicone apparatus that gets to spend a few days a month all up in my shit, well I’m gonna take care of my boo.  We might be together forever.

Remember those poppers when we were kids?

They looked like colorful diaphragms and when you turned them inside out they’d jump 10 feet.  Soo, I didn’t have a good enough grip and Big M flew right across the bathroom.  He was almost a goner.  Back into the boiling water.

Alright.  Now I was ready.  If I followed the directions correctly, I was to maintain a relaxed toilet position and pray that this thing would come out easily later.  I opted for the C-Fold and then prepared myself for bathroom calisthenics.

The instructions read that you’re supposed to spin the cup with your fingers up around the rim after it’s been inserted.  Say what?  So that the cup will pop out from the C-Fold. Do what?

Look, cup-making people, I’m not sure if you’re aware but I’m fat (and so is 50% of the U.S).  And as a fat girl I have this thing lovingly referred to as an apron.  And it gets in the way of most yoga poses.  How the fuck do you expect me to bend in half, on the toilet, and then reach all the way up into my nether cavity, without falling face first into the floor?  My arms don’t bend that way, I don’t know how to dislocate my shoulder.  I’m not double jointed.  Neither of my parents are Gumby.  Can’t you make a selfie stick or something for the Dare Devil Cup?  (No.  You’re right.  Yes. I know.  Idiots would impale themselves.) But the instructions read like this is a frolic in the park, with ice cream at the end.  I’m trying to keep this thing from pelting one of my kids in the head (because the concept of privacy in my house is like explaining Jupiter to a one year old), trying not to get a cramp in my pinky, while simultaneously trying to get Big M to pop and supply adequate coverage to my tampon tunnel.

It would be more honest to write:  “It’s just a jump to the left…” with diagrams of squats, pelvic thrusts, and cabinet leg lifts.

Then it came time to change the damn thing!  Man am I glad there’s a stem on this thing.  If not, I’d be writing from the ER.

I’ll keep this part short.  I basically birthed the damn cup and then had to keep a death grip on it so it didn’t slip out of my fingers and fall in the toilet.  No amount of boiling water will save it.  It’s a goner then.

I then tried the S-Fold.  Nope.  No matter how many times I did the Time Warp, that thing was not going to pop.  Back to the C-Fold.  I know you’ll never fail me, C-Fold.

Final thoughts.

I like the cup.  I’ve been using it for a few cycles now and haven’t lost it to the toilet yet.  I might get a smaller cup and keep Big M as back up, you know, if I’m feeling squirrely.  Or, if I feel like donning some bustiers and a garter belt.
Amazon reminded me that this is the cup I got. I love how Amazon remembers.  And if you want to be my vagina twin, you can get one just like mine. (Affiliate link. This girl’s gotta have a side hustle)