There have been several instances in my life where the personal has merged with the hysterical. The Waxing Night of Horror. The time I dyed my hair and my landlord turned off the water before I could wash it out. The several months of unrest when I was unable to adequately restrain my boobs. In a time before the blog, I tried to remove a contact lense with chilli on my fingers and suffered two black eyes when my housemate tried to wax my leg. I could go on. I think I will.
All the ladies in the house say MENSTRUAL CUP.
(The men can say it too, but they just won’t own it in quite the same way.) If you’ve shouted that out but are gently wondering about the mechanics of such a thing, I find Wikipedia quite helpful. Or just think ‘tampon’ and then substitute ‘small silicone cup with no risks of toxic shock syndrome, no bleached cotton and significantly smaller landfill issues’. It fairly trips off the tongue. Those who are offended by the discussion of every day womanly functions, exit now, pussies…
My cup and I go back to a time before Small DB prowled the Earth, leaving families sleepless in her wake. It does good work, although it involves slightly more coercion than its mouselike counterpart. Of course they’re given slightly more attractive names by astute marketing departments. There’s the Diva Cup, The Keeper, and my personal fave – the Lunette. Besides all the eco-accreditations, you only have to change an MC once every twelve hours or so – BONUS! – particularly when camping/sailing/travelling etc.
The Lunette and I generally get along. However, it has taken me two days to realise my latest personal-care malfunction. And to decide to Warn The Interweb. Or the five or so females that peruse this page, only one of which I am aware uses an MC. The other night after the remove/clean/replace routine (see how clinical I can be when I try?) I had SORE BITS. SAVAGELY SORE. And as I do with most things – I put it down to sleep deprivation. As in, “Did I remember to put down the knife before dealing with my MC? Where is that knife now?”
I was so sore I considered calling my MC using friend for counselling. And to try and figure out what I had done wrong. Because my bits? MY BITS WERE ON FIRE. Quite honestly, I had no idea what to do. I actually got out a mirror and looked for the thing that might be causing my ladyparts such fury. No knife. Nothing. I restrained from writhing through the house with an ice pack between my legs. But only just. By the morning the issue had disappeared and was thus gone from my head like smoke.
It wasn’t until an hour or so ago (two days later) that my brain, working quietly in the background on such problems, made the link. I had cooked dhal. And in cooking it had chopped the bejesus out of a hot green chilli. I had washed my hands very thoroughly, but obviously NOT THOROUGHLY ENOUGH. Let this be a lesson to you, my one MC using reader. This is not a tip for sexifying your staid existence, there was no joy in green chilli-ing my ladyparts. Avoid. Avoid. Avoid. Yet another reason to employ a housekeeper/chef/butler…
And I’ll give you one more tip for free. When visiting houses where there are those snazzy new water saving toilets…viz…
Do not have a brainsnap and wash your MC in the sink. BECAUSE THE WATER IN THAT SINK FLOWS THROUGH TO FLUSH THE LOO. Are you getting my drift, Lily-The-Pink? Eating an entire beetroot would be nothing in comparison. So be aware. (In case you’re wondering – I didn’t do it, but it did cross my mind. A few times. Before I realised exactly what would occur.) Over and out