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New Year Week Two

Week two of the new year and all is well.

Relatively. I think. And hey, what I think is the only thing that matters when it comes to my own reality…right? Don’t answer that.

A few years ago the big thing was saying YES to new experiences and and opportunities, whether they were scary or not. I think that keeping with my focus for the new year (more exposure to new people, experiences, places and events), it will involve a lot of saying yes.

So,  I said yes to an invitation to meet someone new, and to go somewhere I’ve never been.

I set out via transit (I’m a suburbanite who always drives), and loved this new route. This opens up new ease of access, to places I’ve yet to discover, and also allows me to drink more margaritas.

campechano

I met a lovely new woman who had suggested a Toronto Fringe Festival play (Cannibal), which was well-written and marvellously executed on stage.   We strolled down to Campechano for dinner. I’m not going to rate the restaurant because I totally overdid it on Mexican food this year, and if I have another lime and cilantro soaked ceviche any time soon, I’ll die. Just beware that they are a taqueria, and the menu reflects that.They did have tres leche cake on the menu for dessert (the only dessert on the menu), so that’s something.

New acquaintance, new restaurant, new theatre. Not bad for a night out.

I simply could not leave the King Bathurst area without a spree at Forno Cultura, by far, my favourite Italian and Mexican bakery. I tried a new sour cherry type of strudel and me ta lovely employee who reminisced with me about the good-old-days of Terroni prior to one of the founders’ passing. He graciously provided me with an olive oil tasting to win me over from my Terroni stand-by, and pointed out that the  chef behind the wall of glass, who was calmly cutting blocks of butter into uniform cubes was on Iron Chef and won in the flavour category.

bookshelfOn another excursion to return my flu-addled kiddo to university I made my way to a really cool looking place that combines a very well-curated bookstore, with a cinema, and not one, but two restaurants in the same building. It’s called the Bookshelf, and it’s an amazing place to spend time (and money).

All of this because I said yes.

 

 

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For Women Over 40 – Period.

enhanced-7925-1428613781-1This is a blog about menstrual cycles.

There. That should be enough information for you to decide whether you want to read this or not.

Having reached the age of, well, too old for the pill and too old to be convinced I need extra chemicals in my body, I found myself in need of (for the first time), supplies.  Having opted for the Mirena for years, I had little if any need for pads or tampons. But when my body had had enough, and the Mirena was removed, I needed to get back to the wonderful world of feminine hygiene products. Aside; I despite terrorizing reports about the Mirena, I loved it. The worst part was having it implanted. Removing it was a snap, and my doctor did it in her office. Easy-peasy.

I’m convinced that until men start bleeding from their penises, women will be unfairly taxed for feminine hygiene products.

Introducing the Diva Cup. If you haven’t hear of it, just click on the link there. Promoted as being reusable, and a cost saver (because you simply wash and reuse it), I’ve heard excellent things about it.

The Diva Cup isn’t the only menstrual cup out there, but it’s easy to find.

menstural-cup-small-cups-menstrual-cup-greece-menstrual-cup-comparison-india

Basically, it’s a reusable cup that’s supposed to be inserted into your vagina. It forms a seal and catches your menstrual blood. There’s a little tip on the end (kind of like the tip of a condom, but more solid) that you can, theoretically, grab hold of and pull it out.

To make it interesting, the Diva Cup comes in sizes. Since I’m over 30 and have given birth, the general instruction is to go to the largest size, a size 2.  I picked myself up Diva Cup for the standard $39.99, and took it home, eager to see what it was all about.

First of all, the material is  a lot thicker than I thought it would be. And it gets slippery when it’s wet.  Ideally you’re supposed to kind of fold it in half and slide it up into your lady hot-stove. Ideally.  Let’s just say I had to make more than one attempt to launch my Diva rocket, and I was convinced that despite my age and history of childbirth, that I still had a nice, tight woo-hoo. The discomfort did da lot for my gynaecological confidence.

Maybe I needed a smaller size? After a few attempts, the Diva Cup did make it’s way  to where it was supposed to be. But it was still folded over, it had not opened up into the full circle so the cup could form a seal.

Instructions said to give it one full turn to make sure that it was sealed. Easier said than done. It’s slippery up there! It was like trying to grab hold of a soaped up piece of rubber in a narrow, squishy drain pipe. I’m sure it just takes practice. Having my fingers inside of my nether bits while I’m menstruating wasn’t really a fantasy that I dreamt of living out when I slid the pretty Diva Cup box off of the pharmacy shelf. Alas, there I was, bloody fingers slipping all over the outside of a wet, rubber vaginal insert…already panicking of course about a myriad of things to be anxious about once you have a foreign object jammed inside an orifice.

After monkeying around bent over like a dog digging at mange on it’s stomach, I finally got the seal.  A seal I wasn’t entirely confident of. And then I waited.

Actually, I went to bed. What better way to test the seal than to lay down, roll around and get things moving in the morning.  No leaks. This was a plus. No horrific feeling of having a giant bowl stuck inside of me. I was convinced  that I could get through a yoga class without any concern of leakage or discomfort. Bonus.

Time to remove it.

It was cold last night when I took the Diva Cup for a ride,  and I had snugged in tight underneath my fluffy duvet. Turns out the Diva Cup also snugged in tight. The small little doo-hickey that I had carefully examined prior to inserting the cup seemed to have shrunk overnight.

handwashing_fight_germs

Let me just start by saying that I have short fingernails. Shorter than average. I also excelled in microbiology. ‘Nuff said. I’m quite convinced that had I tried to remove this cup, which seemed to have formed a vacuum seal, with fingernails, that I would have broken one off in my vagina.

Getting the damn thing out was difficult. Yes, I was likely tense, but getting ahold of that little tip was like catching a greased pig. Bent over the toilet, I thought that worse case scenario, I could get a pair of locking forceps and pull the damn thing out.

Please see a video on YouTube for an official DivaCup informercial, including insertion and removal.

Having said all of this, I can see the benefits of using the Diva Cup. It does what it’s supposed to do, and it saves money over the long-term. Who really knows about environmental benefits. After all, does the material in pads and tampons degrade more harmlessly and more quickly than medical grade silicone? That, I do not know.

pads.jpgI will be using the Diva Cup again, and hopefully becoming more and more comfortable with inserting and removing it.  I loved the idea of using this while camping and travelling but the reality is that being in a clean environment for removal could  be problematic under those circumstances.

Yes, it is more environmentally friendly, and the cost would definitely be worth it if you are going to use it all of the time. Provided you’re in an environment where you feel comfortable inserting and removing it, I think the Diva Cup could be a lovely addition to an active woman’s lifestyle.

The big plus; Not trying to get to sleep  with a mattress sized pad between your legs, and dare I even go as far as saying, sleeping completely a la mode.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Wonder: As a Verb

wonderEven if it’s just holding space while you let yourself remember what it feels like to actively wonder, I hope this post is a gift to you…to reignite your sense of wonder.

The first time I went to Paris, I spent an entire afternoon, from lunch time to the beginning of the dinner rush, sitting at a cafe table at Les Deux Magots in wonder.

 

wonder.won·der
/ˈwəndər/Submit
noun
1.
a feeling of surprise mingled with admiration, caused by something beautiful, unexpected, unfamiliar, or inexplicable.
“he had stood in front of it, observing the intricacy of the ironwork with the wonder of a child”
synonyms: awe, admiration, wonderment, fascination

I marvelled at St. Germain Church across the street, and the way that the french could grow such perfect red geraniums in those iron window enclosures.  How did they water them? Dead head them?

My intention that day was to treat myself to a piece of cake and a cup of coffee and do a little bit of writing like Hemingway and the great writers of the last century.  There were so many things to see from that little cafe chair though! I felt like I needed to stay, to observe, to figure out how the French made everything so, well, French. After the cake I ordered an entree. The waiter, in his black clothes and calf length crisp, white apron, was not impressed. It just made the entire experience that much more enjoyable for me. For kicks, I had him pose for a picture with me…and then I ordered an hors d’heurve and a glass of wine. The second shift of waiters came on, and the new waiter was lovely. He took great joy from my own, and we had a few laughs at the expense of my mediocre, but very enthusiastic french vocabulary.

That afternoon, and many others while I was in my 20’s, I wondered.

won·der
/ˈwəndər/Submitverb
1.
desire or be curious to know something.
“how many times have I written that, I wonder?”
synonyms: ponder, think about, meditate on, reflect on, muse on, puzzle over, speculate about, conjecture; be curious about
“I wondered what was on her mind”

I love that we have a  verb in the English language such as wonder.  Speculate, think, conjecture, disbelieve, inquire, meditate, puzzle, query, question; all synonyms, and yet none have the positive connotation of wonder.

To wonder is to stay young at heart. It does not judge like disbelieve, query or question. It is not out to unveil deliberately hidden truths like inquire or disbelieve.

Wonder is innocent. It is about wonder as a noun carrying over into developing an understanding of; no judgement or tinkering. Just wonder.

This year I hope to exercise my wonder. I think there is a dangerous den to be avoided at mid-life and in old age that looks comfortable, warm and safe. It has a radius of what is familiar.  I’m not attracted to that den at all, or the people in it.

This year I am wondering about;

img_0143-1.jpgFun, new, wine reviewers. For years I followed Billy’s Best Bottles, bought the annual book that reviewed primarily LCBO wines, and sought out the bottles that were highly recommended. Especially the bargain wines. I wondered at his knowledge and the way he incorporated fun and wonder into his work.  I admired him for it. It inspired me. I am loyal if nothing else, and I still follow Billy, and I want to add something new as well.

Writing meet-ups, new restaurants, travel destinations, new friends of every age, these are all things that I will actively wonder about in 2019.

Most of all I’m wondering about what I don’t already wonder about. Those are the things that will be the most important for all of us.  Those are the things that will keep us young at heart.

 

Posted in Andshelaughs, andshelaughs writing, Creative Life, Healthy Living, Life, Lifestyle, Living, Midlife, Mindful Living, The Art of Living, Uncategorized, Yoga

How Full is Your Cup & What’s With the Heavy Breathing Guy?

yogaIf you don’t already know, I’ve been captive in my own home, caregiving. As much as I have come to appreciate my mobility, I also miss it. The big kind of mobility. The kind of mobility that finds me doing  completely selfish, self-care. The kind that involves hot yoga every day I’m not working the night shift.

I like to think of self-care as part of what any good social liberal would call boundaries; the things I need to maintain balance and health.  Let there be no mistaking it, these boundaries are for the privileged. Before you go all first-world-problems on my ass, I’ve not always been so privileged. I appreciate it, and in order to live my best life, I will pursue these things. Hot yoga, time to write, and dates that inspire creativity.

A mere week before I unexpectedly had to change course and stay home to caregive, I sustained my own injury, which required physiotherapy (which I haven’t had) in order to heal. Today, with the help of some respite at home, I was able to make it back to a one hour class to get my sweat on.

The first thing that I noticed was the stink. The unique odour of an unwashed yoga towel.   Actually, that’s a lie. The first thing I noticed was annoying heavy breathing guy. If you’ve ever gone to a yoga class, you know exactly who I mean; the one person in the room who is the equivalent of the asshole on the train who sits with his legs spread, crotch on display, taking up the width of three seats.  His clear sinuses infect the room like a swarm of mosquitoes.

He was already in the room when I went in to place my mat on the floor. He was actually in my spot, breathing like, look-at-me-I-was-raised-in-the-sacred-culture-of-yoga-and-I’m-going-to-breathe-in-all-of-the-heat-and oxygen-and-I-want-you-to-hear-my-dominance.  I’m nothing if not flexible, so I moved to my third favourite spot (on the opposite side of the room) and took to my stinky mat. By the way, heavy breather also farts through the entire class.  My third-favourite spot is now my second favourite spot. Sans farts and annoying noise.

I had to baby my injury, but it felt soooo good to get back to something normal. Something that has become a huge part of my self care. Part of what today’s instructor referred to as ‘my cup’. Before we began, she asked us to evaluate how full our cup was. Flat on my back, breathing deeply into my chubby belly, I decided I was at about 75%. And and I was pretty damn happy with that. Not so bad under the circumstances, especially considering that I knew what I needed to add the 26% which would create a convex surface atop  the cup, making it dangerously close to overflowing…

Sweat dripping onto my turquoise  towel, I felt hot, sweaty, healthy, radiant and for the first time in a long, long, time, more like myself.

Today I welcomed the inappropriate presence of  heavy breathing guy, hipster-shirtless-beard guy and the Asian business lady who was oblivious of the silent rule who interrupted my mojo by asking me questions at the beginning of the class while I was clearly getting down to it in Savasana. She also moaned painful ‘Oh God’s’ as she transitioned into each new position. Come to think of it, maybe that middle-aged lady knows a little trick that I don’t know. A little Oh God moaning might do me a world of good…

Regardless of your situation in life, I urge you, as I urge myself, to maintain your boundaries. Ensure you know how to refill your cup, even if you’re going through a stage where it’s not full. Know your boundaries, and skedaddle like hell when you get the chance to give yourself some of that self-love that you need. If you don’t get time, fight the good fight to make the time.

 

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Caregiving & Not Caring At All

twofacedI found him on the floor.

And that’s how our little cozy home changed, for better or worse this year.

I’ve deleted three posts about how awful people are with their criticism and how deep down in my human soul, I hope that karma slaps them in the face. Le sigh….this is where not caring at all becomes spiritual practice, oh, and also letting go of all of that karma’s-gonna-get-you-bullshit.

My home has always been my sanctuary, filled in every nook and cranny with something meaningful, inspiring or fun (including the people in it).

As a writer, caregiving is rife with stories to tell, lessons to be learned and emotion.

One thing I’ve learned is that organized living helps reduce stress during times of crisis. Having some financial wiggle room is essential to being able to stay home and provide care, and self-care is golden. Also, the quality of the company I keep has been revealed as well. That’s right, I’ve heard how you’ve said I don’t need to be here right now. It stung, but I’m over it. Mostly because it says everything about your lack of character and nothing about mine.

Not only have I been indoctrinated into the lack of modesty of my partner, introduced to body fluids that are not my own, and run my chubby little ass off, I have also come to cherish two things dearly; my hours alone after my love has been tucked in and medicated to sleep, and the escape I get with my writing.

I would be lying if I told you that I’m not scared to death about how we’re going to get through this, with complicated issues including fever and infection that I never really thought about. But I would also be lying if I said I’d have it any other way. I belong here right now for the safety of my sweetie, and that is caregiving. Truly not giving a shit about those people who have no empathy, well, that’s going to take some practice…but I”m up for the challenge.

As a writer, I like to think that this experience is enhancing my craft. As a partner, I wish I could trade places and take the pain away. As a friend, frankly I’m relieved to have revealed to me who is true and who is not. My nature is a caregiver…not giving a shit, not so much.

 

Posted in Andshelaughs, Art of LIving, Fearless Living, Graceful Living, Gracious Living, Healthy Living, Joyful Living, Life Lessons, Lifestyle, Living, Meaning of Life, Midlife, Mindful Living, Politics, Simple Living, Social Commentary, Society, Spirituality, The Art of Living, Uncategorized, Whole Living

How to Break from Political Horror & Come Back Refreshed

change of perspectiveWe’re not even safe in our living rooms any more.

The madness south of the border seeps in through CNN and FOX news like a spring leak in a dank basement.  And I’m tired of being angry.

The solution to the madness in the world is not complicated despite the common-cop-out response from people who just don’t feel like defending their political, social and gender-role points of view.

It begins and ends with kindness.

Stop being greedy, lustful, covetous fuck buckets of douche scum. It’s that simple.

To save myself from my partner’s obsession with news south of the border, yes, even the redundancy of hurricane news on CNN, I have decided I must  leave the room.

One act of kindness followed by another, routinely carried out throughout the day by ourselves and our leaders might, just might, heal the world.

For now, there are happy articles such as this; Woman Arrested for Trying to Recreate ‘Dirty CAnding’ Scene in a Wine Store. 

Enjoy.

 

Or perhaps this is more your style;

 

When you’ve had a little break and feel some of your  faith in humanity restored, don’t be afraid to catch up on your local news, and then go out into your community and make a difference with your kindness.

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Monthly Planner

Today while connecting with my lovelies on Instagram, this post caught my eye and made me stop what I was doing.

I used to be religious about keeping a day planner.

As a matter of fact, I took pride in documenting every single thing that I did of note so that it could be neatly tucked away, ink on paper, in the same type of  tidy journal that my grandfather kept, and then filed neatly on the same shelf that housed his journals during his old-age.

During trying times, I made a conscious effort to ensure that all my needs were met in order to stay healthy; emotional, physical, spiritual, social and intellectual. I made time for at least one hour of an activity, or get-together (per week) that was intended to satisfy each of those needs in my life.

journals

 

And then suddenly, without much thought, the ease of carrying every tidbit of my life on my portable phone took over. Instead of having my month laid out for me, I tend to look at days, and then parts of days so that I can manage my job, my business, my home and my social life in bits and pieces. Because I no longer look at a bigger picture timeline, I have felt myself slide into a schedule that is running me, and not the other way around.

Today an Instagram post caught my eye and reminded me of all of what I’ve just said. And of course, I thought that it was a damn good idea to get back my old way of scheduling what can only be called, time for joy.

I’m looking forward to recommitting to my relationships and self-care. I hope that this little social media gem is as helpful to you as it has been to me.

Now who wants to join me for breakfast in the morning? My treat.