I have some words of advice for women who use the bathroom at their child’s preschool during menstruation. Don’t put your tampon in the toilet. I actually broke my own rule this day. I usually never put a tampon in the toilet. Even if I was at Caldor. Or the mall. Or a campground. Because they are not good for the system, whether it be septic or sewer. I know, I was very thoughtful. Usually.
I was dropping The Kid off at her preschool when I realized I was having a problem down below. I found a bathroom in the hall and used it. The toilets were of the teeny tiny kind. The kind where when you sit, your knees hit your chin. And your ass cheeks hang over the side like a 1/4 Pounder shoved into a mini croissant. Unless you are 4, probably not a good idea to try. With or without your period.
I forgot my head, and suddenly realized I dropped the thing into the toilet. I flushed. It swirled around and around. Like the Merry-Go-Round at the mall. Needless to say, it didn’t go down. Another flush. And another ride around the rim it did. I started to break out in a major sweat. And felt like I had to poo (when I get really nervous, I get the sensation. And I’m not talking about that kind you have from being on top of a cool mountain).
Now, there was a way to rectify the situation. Stick my hand in and pull the sucker out, wrap it in toilet paper and toss it into the can. Garbage can. I even could have just left it there. No one would have been the wiser. But the old Catholic guilt was eating away at me. Instead, I proceeded to the office of the school’s Director and told her about my problem. There is nothing more embarrassing than having a woman who you do not know watch your bloody tampon do pirouettes in a toilet made for munchkins.
I got reprimanded. “Mrs. M., please do not use the children’s bathrooms anymore. We have toilets for big girl’s down the hall. And no tampons. Please.” I was expecting her to slap the back of my hand and send me to the corner. It was then that the thought of going fishing occurred to me.
Whenever I see the director around town, I literally run in the opposite direction. Or hide until she goes away. Not that she would remember that I was the tampon lady. But just in case. So, if you see me cowering at the local craft store between the acrylic and latex paints, you’ll know why.
A cup for your vagina. A cup. To collect your menstrual flow. And it’s one size fits all. Even though I’m sure uteruses (or is it uteri?) come in all shapes and sizes. And it claims you can wear it for up to 12 hours during any activity. ANY activity. Yup. Even that.
I wasn’t quite sure how one would remove a softcup from their vagina because there isn’t a string. Then I looked it up. You have to insert your finger up into your hoo-hoo until you hit your pubic bone, then grab it with your finger and pull down. But be careful. You don’t want to spill the contents of your cup. I can tell you with certainty that this would be a major fail for me. Since I can’t get through the day without spilling something. Just ask DH.
How do you dispose of your collection? You pour it into the toilet. Because it’s a cup. A cup for the vagina. Just like any other cup. Red solo cup, sippy cup, vagina cup.
Did I mention it’s reusable? “They” say you can wear one cup for an entire menstrual cycle. So a box should last over a year. We are saving the earth one vagina cup at a time.
I read that these have been around for 10 years. How did I not know that? I guess I missed the boat on that one. Or, er, the cup.
Yesterday I told of my daughter’s special gift of my leftover “incidentals.” Well, at least they had a sticky strip to make her life easier. Would you like to hear about MY hand-me-down?
Hysterectomies run in my family. A tradition that runs 4 generations deep on my maternal side. Anyway, when my mom lost her “womanhood”, she left me a nice surprise but I wouldn’t find out about it until it was too late. Believe me, if I had known it would have accidentally died in a fire.
Mother Nature showed up when I was 14, sitting in my room, on the floor, doing a puzzle. My mother was at work. My father was home. Oh God.
I called my mom in total panic mode. She instructed me to go to the hall closet. In the said closet on the top shelf is where it was, cobwebs and all. What I pulled down completely had me puzzled.
What is it? A headband? A dog collar? I could only wish. For those of you who don’t know, it’s called a Sanitary Belt. Honestly, I think it was a hand me down from HER mother. And the pad I had to use? It looked like it was made for a menstrating elephant. Never mind an 80 pound teenage girl child. Once I figured it out and got it on, it flopped about until dad drove me to the nearest pharmacy where he made ME go in and get some supplies.
Well, 30 years and many therapy sessions later, I’m over it. And whatever became of the belt? It’s hanging in the Smithsonian. Right next to the torture rack.