College Graduation

graduationIt was bound to happen. I knew that when my relationship ended with my ex, that there would be events in the kids’s lives that I  would miss out on.

And so it is with the GM Daughter, who graduated from college (with a 4.0. GPA, I might brag) last week. Another chapter has been written, and I will not have the pleasure of attending the festivities taking place this weekend in her honor.

Although I take new pictures of our lives, as they are now, beautiful pictures, I suppose some of the old one’s still rattle around in my head. Milestones, and markers, like a graduation, makes turning the page just a little more challenging.

I have so much with the GMD. I don’t need to be with her this weekend but I also feel that I should be there. It should be me celebrating her accomplishments and achievements, with food, wine and the balloons, that I would’ve most certainly have filled the room with. Balloons make everything special.

There will be other faces instead, new faces, in the pictures with her now, and I will have to accept that- just not yet.

She and I will have our own celebration, and balloons. But for now, I feel like the outsider, like I had all those years ago, when I was new on the scene.

The feeling will surely pass, as it always does, just not yet.

Fat Free Vaginal Yogurt

Vaginal YogurtIt seems that unless I have the words, vagina or hand job, in my posts, people don’t seem to be as interested. Hmm.

That speaks to the world we live in, and to the company that I keep online, doesn’t it.

It was suggested to me by one of my Pilates clients that I write about a woman who made her own yogurt from her vaginal secretions. There, I said vaginal. Happy?

Cecelia Westbrook, an MD/PhD student at the University of Wisconsin, Madison, decided that there wasn’t enough information out there on how to make yogurt with vaginal bacteria, or about vaginal bacteria in general. Cecelia wanted to right that particular wrong.

Perhaps there’s a dearth of information for several reasons. 1. Who the f’ cares? 2. Who the hell wakes up one morning thinking about how to DIY yogurt with her lady juice? 3. We know plenty and there’s no good reason to dig any further. 4. Scientists are too busy curing cancer.

“Can I make a dairy product from my vaginal flora?”

Was this  burning question keeping Cecilia up at night? May I suggest that she read a book, or DVR The Voice, but for the love of all things Dannon, please keep the wooden spoon out of your hoo hoo hole and use it for stirring the pasta sauce, like one is supposed to.

Nobody paid her to perform this NASA-worthy experiment. It was her own curiosity that led her to ladle out her secretions. When I was a kid, my curiosity led me to the candy store to buy pop rocks and soda to see if I would explode, like Mikey did. Or did he.

On the other hand, if Cecilia’s experiment worked, she could save a lot of money, not having to buy yogurt. Have you seen the prices on that Fage lately. I guess that’s what dairy crack cost these days.

She spooned herself out into a bowl and the next morning, she ate herself. (pause for childish giggle) She said that she tasted, er, rather the yogurt, tasted sour like Indian yogurt. Ms. Cecelia just compared her vaginal yogurt to Indian yogurt and India took a hit.

I think the FDA and some other agency weighed in and concluded that vaginal secretions were not food and for Cecilia to read a book.

Cecelia should apply herself onto her face as a moisturizing mask, and/or a hair conditioner, like the rest of us do with semen.

 

Don’t Deny Yourself Anything That Can Make You Great

Don't Deny Anything that can make you great

Photocredit:Pixshark.com

It was a wise man who once told me not to deny myself anything that can make me great.

I’m pretty certain that he was quoting some philosopher, or Simon and Garfunkel song lyrics, but no matter, it was sage advice. Thanks, Dad.

It was a little over a year ago that I learned how to Pole. My motivation was, well, let’s just say, that at the time, I felt that I had something to prove. I had a feeling that I would enjoy it and I was right. It reconnected me to myself and it has been a hoot.

Learning something new is scary but it can also be invigorating, exciting and powerful. My latest something is beach volleyball. I can just hear my ex-boyfriend now. “You’re learning how to play now? What about the 7 1/2 years that we were together?”

He was, and probably still is, an avid player. I touched the ball a handful of times with my ex- ooh, that sounded dirty- but learning from him was nearly impossible and it probably wasn’t healthy for the relationship.

Thus, I was relegated to watching from the sidelines. Contrary to what he thought, I was watching. He also played for like 16 hours straight, and there was just so much that my eyes could handle.

I enjoyed watching him. The problem, however, lay in the fact that, by nature, I wasn’t a sidelines sort of person; in life, sports, Karaoke. I was, and am, a doer. It felt unnatural to lay on the beach and not move.

I’m a mover, a dancer, an athlete, a Pilates instructor for crying out loud. But there I was, laying on a beach towel, reading a book, picking my bathing suit bottom out of my crack, because it was definitely too small for the Jersey Shore.

I wanted to learn how to play; not only because my ex played, and it might have been something that we could share, but because I liked learning. And moving. Moving and learning.

It makes me think of when I was married. My ex-husband was, probably still is, a musician. Being a song and dance gal, I was enamored by his ability to play each and every instrument as well as his collection of microphones.

One day I asked him if he would teach me how to play the drums. Like, pole, and volleyball now, it was something that I had wanted to learn. It was like pulling teeth to get him to give me a few lessons, but he eventually acquiesced.

Music was his world. I was on his turf, and it wasn’t a hobby for him. After only a handful of lessons, I suggested that we start a band. I had always wanted to be in a band and I saw this as a perfect opportunity. He did not. I thought we could be the next Ike and Tina Turner; minus the abuse. He did not.

Firstly, he was already in a band, which of course I already knew; being married to him and all. Secondly, he told me that it wasn’t fun for him to play with me, a novice, and when he had downtime, he didn’t want to be in the studio teaching me about snares and cymbals.

It was similar situation with my ex-boyfriend. He didn’t have the patience, nor desire, to teach me the game starting from square one. He took the game very seriously. It was competitive and the beach was his place, his sanctuary.

There were few who were chosen to join in, even though I was one of the chosen ones, but I don’t think that he was referring to those chosen ones.

It was not to be during our relationship tenure. It wasn’t a supportive and welcoming environment for newbies, and the regulars made that crystal clear, so I sat on the bench, as it were.

Learning the game would have to be on my own time, in my own way and initiated by my genuine desire, not simply to please my ex. I always felt a little resentment for being left out and then, metaphorically speaking, penalized for not knowing how to play.

I thought that, with a little practice, one day I’d be able to get the ball over the net, much in the same way that I knew that I’d be able to climb to the top of the pole.

By joining a beginner class, and challenging myself, I’ve spun around what used to be a bone of contention, into something that has humbled me, and shown me, just how hard it is to run in the sand, while picking my bathing suit bottom out of my crack.

I know that testing ones limitations, and staying curious feeds the soul like nothing else can.

Don’t deny yourself anything that can make me great.