Diva Cup Discussions. (A group text)


SA: “Why is it packaged like that? Is it in the Barbie aisle? Model 2.”

AO: “Haha. Yeah, why is it packaged like that?

Me: “Please tell me it’s for bigger vaginas?”

SA: “It’s for “women over 30 and/or those who have given birth vaginally” Do we just get looser over 30? No body told me?”

Me: “Nooooooo!!!!”

SA: “The package is blue, for sadness.”

SA: “Did I miss age based tampons? Like we old ladies just use rolls of Brawney now.”

AO: “The blue one doesn’t have daiseys.”

Me: “What if your over 30 and had c-sections?”

AO: “I think just diapers at that point.”

SA: “How do c-sections affect the vag?”

Me: “I think they make them smaller and prettier.”

SA: “The model 1 probably comes with free XXL condoms for the fabulous sex lives of those under 30. And a plane ticket to Miami.”

Me: “Those whores. And they get the pink cup. That’s ageist and sexist.”

LN: “Yeah, weird. Kids or no kids does your vagina increase in size as you age?  I must have missed that in sex ed.”

Me: “Who ever branded this was def a man or a teenager. Who thought identifying your vagina as older and bigger, misidentified their market. ”

SA: “Probably that Martin Shukli guy.”

SA:” Imagine if they sold condoms in that packaging.”

Me: “They should be in two separate sections of the store. Pink ones with booze and condoms and the blue ones next to the diarrhea medicine and reading glasses.”

LN: “Hahaha and depends.”

LL: “I think the daiseys are meant to distract you from the fact you are jamming what is equivalent of a dental swish up your vag.”

LL: “By the way- 32 text messages. Well done you old whores.”

SA: “If we were under 30 we’d have used snapchat or something.”

LL: “Is that the one where you take pictures of your vaginas? I don’t have that app. And for the record-no cup was purchased although I considered sending one to each of you but that seemed like a expensive prank.”

SA: “That’s where you draw the line on frivolous spending.”

LL: “Everyone has a line. Turns out mine was spending $100 on menstrual cups to send anonymously to my friends.”

Me: “I think we all know where we stand with Liz. I bet her fancy law school friends are getting all types of anonymous menstrual cups. Just bc we’re not lawyers, doesn’t mean don’t bleed. Monthly.”

SA: “Diva cup discrimination.”

Me: “As if my feeling weren’t hurt enough by qualifying for the blue cup.”



If I could give one piece of marriage advice (which I have no business doing) it would be this: Marry someone you like spending time with. There is pressure out there to find someone who makes the same money, or who have the same interests. I don’t think any of that is as important as if you simply enjoy each others company. If you feel at home when your with each other. There is no one who gets me more then my husband. And that seems impossible if you look at our pedigrees or our DVR choices. He comes from a science background and I barely know what the periodic table is. Our familys (though both crazy) are crazy in very different ways. The love we have has got us through the rough moments in our marriage but the like has got us through the day to day. I’m able to forgive his excessive farting (and it’s fucking excessive) and he’s able to move past my ability to only watch full blown psychos on TV. I’m using our zero divorces as evidence.

I’ve seen men who marry women who are beautiful but lack substance. Women who take pride in their husbands money and their own beauty.  But they didn’t earn the money. They married it. And it can (and usually does) divorce them. Also, men who marry trophy wives HAVE to know beauty is fleeting? I mean, we all grow old dummies. We can fight it as much as want but it’s coming for us. I’m not saying we should all go become mud people, throw dirt on our faces and stop courtesy farting in the bathroom. I shower and sometimes shave my armpits but being beautiful or having money can’t be your everything. It will destroy you. Our society has created this belief that if you look good for you husband, your relationship will stay intact. It’s total bullshit. The days I felt the most connected and in love with my husband were right after I gave birth to my son. I was in mesh panties, there were lots of discussions about my pooping (they don’t release you until you poop) and I was 30 pounds heavier. And it was the most intense love we ever shared. It was me and my husband against the world. We were learning how to care for this tiny human. Our sweet baby. It was our journey and not one single fuck was given about how I looked.

Not that there is nothing wrong with looking good. I get a little pep in my step when I know my hair is clean and I’m wearing something that doesn’t have urine or spit up on it. And you WILL NOT see me outside my without concealer under my eyes. But I know that true intimacy isn’t about how I look, what my job is, or where I went to school. It’s about being vulnerable and honest and making a commitment to stand by each other.

Also, I don’t worry that my husband will leave me for some pretty young thing. (I worry more he’ll leave me because I talk about the New York housewives too much) I know that there are younger, prettier, more educated woman out there. They don’t pose a threat because there is one thing they will never have: our history. They weren’t there through the tears, the laughter, the nights in the hospital after giving birth, our children’s first words. These moments matter. They matter more than any number on a scale or wrinkle in my face. I heard once someone say, that trying something new with your partner was the best way to save a marriage. At first glance I thought, what cheap marriage advice (and that I should stop getting marital advice from Vh1 reality shows), but the more I thought about it the more it made sense. It’s not the task or activity together but the time together. If you enjoy that time, then that’s a really good sign you have something special.


Don’t come for me in a Friendlys.

To the gentleman sitting behind us at Friendlys, I know you wanted me to apologize because my kids were loud and annoying at dinner. I saw the looks when you saw they took off their shoes and talked loudly about butt farts.

Here’s the thing: I’m at a Friendlys. Do you think I’m here because my life is glamorous and I enjoy fine dining and good food. No. I’m here because there is a universal understanding that if your eating at a Friendlys, your kids get to be adorable little psychopaths. If you don’t like it, upgrade to Applebees.

Also, at no point did I judge for being two childless men in their 40’s eating at a friendlys. I didn’t questions the life choices that brought you here. Maybe you like cold fries and balloons. Maybe your one of those man-babies who enjoy reliving their childhoods and are just biding time till you can go cry yourself to sleep in your adult sized crib. That’s fine. None of my business. But I don’t go to man-baby conventions and act all pissed off because there’s a bunch of men acting like babies.

Also, if you thought my 1.5 year old was going to correct her behavior because of your passive aggressive mumbling and eye rolling, Rest Assured: my 1.5 year old cares about one thing and one thing only: Elmo. If your not Elmo, you and your reasonably priced hamburger can fuck right the fuck off.

I do understand we live in a society that has rules and I’m perfectly willing to follow them. I want my kids to grow up and respect other people’s space and time. Right now though, I want them to be kids. To laugh loud, not wear shoes, tell poop jokes. This is it. This is when they get to do that and your bitterness or unreasonable expectations will not dampen my kids sunshine. Not today and not at a fucking friendlys.