Monthly Archives: May 2014

Maya Angelou and My First Smartphone

Welcome to several years ago! I have my first smartphone!

During naptime on the day of Maya Angelou’s death, which also happened to be the first day of me having my first smartphone, I settled in to reread some of her works. My brain went haywire:

“I believe most plain girls are virtuous because of the scarcity of opportunity to be otherwise.”

[*ding*] Delia’s misses you! Are we still friends? Free shipping until midnight!

“To be left alone on the tightrope of youthful unknowing is to experience the excruciating beauty of full freedom and the threat of eternal indecision.”

[*ding*] You now have your 2,037th follower on your blog.

“The caged bird sings with…”

[*ding*] Your aunt and your Gramma liked your photo.

“The intensity with which young people live demands that they ‘blank out’ as often as possible.”

Word, Maya Angelou. WORD.

After having my smartphone for four days now, I have a few observations:

  • I feel a little boring and standard now. We are not used to doing anything the normal way. We liked having the albino guinea pig with red eyes that no one loved because he was ugly. We like that we have had three children with only one pregnancy. We like that we listen to vinyl records. We are used to being the odd ducks in a group, and now we’re just so… normal.
  • Touch screens? Dang. Am I living in the future? I was born in the 1970s- just barely, but I was- and I actually remember a life before cable and even remotes and air conditioning. I got up to change the channel, and I tossed and turned in sweaty Virginia summer sheets all night long. I remember getting our first Beta VCR and, later, CD player. I didn’t go on the internet until college, and I didn’t have a cell phone until I was married. I feel like I will have much more in common with my parents than my children will have with me. The scariest part of holding all this convenience in my hand? It’s that my children will never know how truly amazing it is.
  • That sucker is slippery! How do you people not drop those things? I need a case. And a cover. And a screen protector. And some grippy tape. And a string to thread through it. (Might as well rope it to my neck, cuz it’s gonna be an albatross.)
  • I missed my first phone call because I couldn’t figure out how to answer it. Yep, when Mr. Okayest showed me all the amazing features on this amazing phone, I guess he forgot to show me, you know, the phone.
  • I feel like I am one of my one-year-old twins when I make a call. I feel like I am just picking up some random black rectangle and putting it my ear and saying, “He-yo. Bye bye.” It doesn’t seem like a phone. I mean, why I don’t just put the remote control to my ear? Or that ear of corn?
  • CAMERA!!!! What mom doesn’t want a tiny camera in her pocket all day long to capture all of the wonderful and disgusting and horrible things her children do? I am not being sarcastic here. I don’t think I am being sarcastic. Maybe I am. I actually don’t know. I confused myself.
  • My friends on Facebook are gonna be soooo sorry that I got my first smartphone. How will I restrict myself? It is so easy to post photos of my cute kids (i.e., my kids having a tantrum/ being covered in an unspeakable mess) and my delicious food-porn dinners (i.e., animal crackers and string cheese again). No more taking photos on the camera, taking out the memory card, and sticking it in my computer. Phew. That was so hard and all. *
  • I’m in love with it. It’s one of those things that you probably can’t return from, like call-waiting, caller ID, and DVR. You’re totally good without them, until, well, you have them.

So, self, welcome to several years ago. You’ve always been a late-bloomer, and you weren’t about to change now. And, to Maya Angelou, I apologize. I will learn how to turn my notifications off so I can stop “blanking out” and actually relearn why that caged bird sings.

~~~

 

*There is a joke in here somewhere about how I got to know Mr. Okayest in the high school darkroom, where in order to see the photos we took, we had to: thread the film on the reel in the pitch black, then turn on the red safety (i.e., romance) light, then dilute and mix the chemicals in three trays, then wait for them to reach the correct temperature, then pour three different chemicals into the film reel, then hang it to dry on a clothesline, then come back the next day and cut the negatives, then load your favorite negative into the enlarger, then focus it, then focus it again, then do a test print, then insert the photo paper into the enlarger, then expose the photo paper, then put the photo in the developer tray, then rinse it, then put it in the stop bath, then rinse it, then put the paper in the fixer tray, then squeegee it, then hang it to dry, then realize you did a sucky job, then do it all over again, then repeat the whole process for each photo on your reel. Yeah. Yeah, you young whipper-snappers, that’s how it’s done.

That’s also how you fall in love.

~~~

Allow me to add that Maya Angelou’s poem, Phenomenal Woman, helped me through those high school years. I wish I could post it here, but it’s copyrighted, and I don’t know all the rules for that yet. So just click on the link and enjoy. But turn your phone off first. Better yet, listen to her read it herself, since she was the ultimate storyteller and orator.

I Studied Abroad in Italy to Get Back at My Boyfriend, Part 2: Culture (Men) Shock

Italy schoolOur Italian professors warned us that Italian men were not a threat, but that they were after us only for sport. “It’s just a national sport in Italy! It doesn’t mean anything!” they said. They encouraged us girls to ignore them. I took their advice at first, when I was a timid country girl. But after a couple of months, I had had enough. I could yell “Va Via!” while literally shoving them away. When my boyfriend (Future Mr. Okayest) picked me up at the airport after a summer in Italy, he said he actually did not recognize me. He later said that he noticed me and appreciated me, but kept on looking for me. I had a don’t-mess-with-me attitude on like a suit. And I was confident.

Italy statueI’m not so sure that those professors should have encouraged 19 to 21-year-old girls to ignore the “innocent” appreciations of Italian men. Yes, I understand that appreciating women is a national sport in that country. Yes, I understand that they were trying to explain that most men were simply noting beauty, as if we were delicate little flowers or a fine glass of wine. However, some of the men were actually threatening me (and my delicate flower). Many of the men touched me. Granted, I had never lived in any city before, so maybe all women who live in cities have to learn to deal with the attention. But I have a feeling that Italy is in a class by itself.

When I say “many of the men touched me”, I realize, after rereading my Italy journals, that that is an understatement. Truthfully, I was groped several times each day and catcalled constantly.

I identified so much with this photo, I took it home, framed it, and gave it a permanent home on the wall.

I identified so much with this photo, I bought it and it now hangs in my house.

The men who were treating me like a delicate little flower or fine wine would try to stroke my hair or my hand and said things like:

  • “American, si? Hollywood, si?”
  • “You-a, me-a, si? Una, due, yes?”
  • “Bellisima!”*

The men who were treating me like a ball in some sort of “national sport” tried things like:

  • Walking in front of me and stopping short so I would bump into them
  • Walking behind me and “bumping” into me
  • Grabbing my bum on a crowded bus
  • Trying to, um, poke me with an umbrella

Strangely, I didn’t feel like a victim, as I would have expected. I just got tougher. It was the first time in my life I really learned to stand up for myself, so maybe it wasn’t all bad.

There were two incidents that were, in fact, extremely threatening. They are too graphic for me to actually write down here, in this blog that I say is for my children. I will just gloss over them by saying that one incident ended with me flagging down an Italian police car with vigorous hand-waving. When the police car stopped, I was quite flustered, and the only Italian I could piece together was, “Uomo no pantalones!” (“Man no pants!” has now become my favorite Italian phrase.)

Also, the police men themselves added to my agitation. Police men in Italy are a bit more casual than policemen in ‘Merica. First of all, there were four of them per police car. Second, they cruise around with the windows down, sunning their brown short-sleeved arms hanging out of the car. Third, they themselves have been known to, um, “appreciate” us.

Needless to say, their casual attitude did not suddenly disappear simply because of one American girl’s wild gesturing. They cruised off in the general direction of uomo no pantalones in no hurry. (I hope I haven’t offended any Italian policemen here. This was a long time ago…)

Me and one of many Italian waiters I propositioned by accident

Me and one of many Italian waiters I propositioned by accident

One story about Italian men happens to feature me as the culprit, not the victim. Most of my friends are quite well-acquainted with this already, but allow me to embarrass myself once again. My Italian was far inferior to my roommates’ Italian. When we went to restaurants, I often let them order first, and then I would simply tell the waiter, “sesso“, which means “same.” After doing that throughout several cities in Italy, I accidentally said it one day in Italian class. My (youthful and male) teacher burst into laughter, and explained that “sesso” means “SEX” and “stesso” means “same”. By leaving out one little letter, I had been telling attractive Italian waiters all over the country that I wanted sex.

And, in case Okayest Mom’s Mom is reading this, please know that no harm ever befell me in Italy, despite all of my crazy stories. I came back tougher, stronger, and, well, more appreciated. Hehee.

Italy trainComing home was a bit of a letdown. I think my 21-year-old self can say it best. From my 2000 Italy journal: “The walk home from the club, just us three girls, was so typical. I wish we had thought to count the incidents of honks, whistles, bikes swerving, catcalls, and approaches at conversation. At 3:30 AM, all the settled men must be in with their women, because every passerby had to comment. In a 45-minute walk, there was at least one incident per minute. It’s not even annoying anymore- it’s just the way it is. But when I go home, will I feel a lack? Will I feel ignored? Will I feel unattractive when no one comments anymore? Worse yet, will I appreciate when someone does catcall?”

 

 

*I was also called “Barbie Girl” and “Hey, Chiquita Banana, your sandwich is ready!”

Don’t forget to read the first part of this series, I Studied Abroad in Italy to Get Back at My Boyfriend, Part 1: (Culture Shock: Food), which details why exactly I had to get back at my boyfriend and why I was starving in Italy.

 

 

 

 

 

How I Ended Up on the Side of the Road in My Undershirt with Someone Else’s Vomit in my Mouth (Did I Go Too Far?)

My Mom is Just Okay

Okayest Mom’s Okayest Week

Moms can have REALLY bad weeks. Perhaps especially stay-at-home moms can have really bad weeks, if for no other reason than time. Maybe we are more likely to experience a disgusting event simply due to the amount of hours we log. It’s all about statistics, baby.

Sometimes things happen that may have never happened in the history of the world. Like #1. Sometimes things happen to moms that must happen to every mom in the whole world, but no one ever talks about it. Like #8.

Here are some parenting-fails that happened this week:

  1. Two of my sons were driving matchbox cars ON MY BOOBS during church and I didn’t even notice.
  2. One of my 1-year-old twins shocked my dog. I only knew this when the 100-pound dog yelped and leaped into the air. My son had gotten his fat hands on her shock collar remote and sent her flying.*
  3. One of my 1-year-old twins threw his big brother’s jammies into the toilet. I lifted the lid to pee and found dinosaur jammies in there. Bonus: because the jammies were fleece, they had soaked up ALL the water in the toilet. Try getting THAT to the basement washing machine.
  4. All three of my children have splinters in their hands that I can’t get out. Bad news: Our stupid deck is so rotten that it constantly gives the kids splinters. Good news: Our stupid deck is so rotten that the splinters just dissolve on their own.
  5. We finally left the house and, upon arriving at our destination, I realized that my twins were sharing Crocs as footwear. By “sharing”, I mean that each twin had one black Croc and one blue croc on his feet. Bonus: all four of those Crocs were on the wrong feet. What is the statistical likelihood of that? Bonus: all four of those Crocs belonged to their older brother.
  6. One child pooped ON the deck TWICE in one day. **
  7. One child vomited ON another child.
  8. One child vomited IN my mouth. I’m not talking baby spit-up in my mouth- that happens to everyone. I mean real kid-vomit. I didn’t sympathy-barf because I was too busy telling myself “That did NOT just happen,” while trying to keep the barf off the van upholstery.
  9. The child who vomited in my mouth did so on the side of the road, while I was only in my undershirt. (My sweatshirt had already been ruined earlier.)
  10. I made dinner for the kids and put them to bed in between my own pukes.

Not trying to gross you out here, I swear. I just think that there may be other moms out there who will find relief in knowing that they aren’t alone. Instead of crying, I texted a friend immediately after #8 and begged her to tell me that has happened to other moms. She simply replied, “Yep.” So, if your week was gross and terrible, I am here to tell you, “Yep.”

 

*And, okay, people, I don’t want any hate mail about that shock collar. It was recommended to us by a trusted professional who has extensively trained us and our dog for reasons that you don’t know anything about.

** Isn’t it awesome to have more than one kid, so you can share something as embarrassing as this semi-anonymously? I mean, you will only have a 33 1/3% chance of getting it right if you were to guess. And I am not accepting guesses.

Crocs Fail

Crocs Fail

Reblog: Please Educate Your Kids About Adoption So Mine Don’t Have To

Dang it, I wish I had written this one myself. But, since I didn’t, and this woman says it so well, you get to read from someone else today. This mom has two brown (and adopted) sons and two white (and birthed) daughters. I think she knows a thing or two. Here is Kristen, from the Rage Against the Minivan blog:

Please Educate Your Kids About Adoption So Mine Don’t Have To

As my son gets closer to school-age, these kind of peer conversations are.going.to.happen. Help him out by teaching your children about all the different kinds of parents in this world.

(PS, Her selection of books is wonderful. My son and I just had a special moment over “A Mother For Choco”… but it’s too precious to write down here. Sorry.)

Mother’s Day Can Sometimes Feel Like a Bruise

Like many of you, my feelings about Mother’s Day are a little complex. Despite the fact that I have those chubby toddler arms (x6) around my neck, there are still “tender feelings – the way a bruise is tender” (to quote a sensitive leader of my church). My heart goes out to all of you for whom this day may feel a bit like a bruise.  My heart goes out to all of you who have lost a mother, or have adopted this year, or have placed a baby for adoption, or have experienced miscarriage, or have lost a full-grown child, or have chosen not to parent, or biology has chosen not to allow you to parent.

I think of my son’s birthmother today, on Mother’s Day. To say that I am thankful for her is an understatement. My heart hurts for her, and my soul is filled with love for her. I wonder if she is thinking of him. I hope she knows I am thinking of her.

Melissa and MomI think of my own mother today, on Mother’s Day. I am completely thankful for and in love with my own mother, who raised me well and taught me everything I know about parenting (well, almost… she didn’t know much about twins). She is a wonderful grandmother to my children. And, during my miscarriages and infertility treatments, she used to skip church with me on Mother’s Day to hike in the woods, so that I wouldn’t cry when they passed out flowers to the mothers in the congregation.

I think of my mother-in-law today, on Mother’s Day. She raised my favorite man. She gave me the gifts of teaching her son to hug perfectly and to listen well and to notice everything. She gives me every Tuesday morning off from motherhood while she plays with her grandbabies. I hope I can offer my future daughters-in-law even a fraction of those gifts.

I’m so lucky to have these women in my life, who have loved us and are still here with us to wrap their arms around us to literally hold us up. I am so lucky to have my three sons here on earth with me, to wrap their fat arms around my neck, to literally hold me down.

And yet, I miss the ones I have lost.

And yet, I think of you, the ones who might be hurting today. I am thinking of you women who, like me, have tender feelings for one reason or another. You are loved! I have not forgotten this wound, which is now just a tender bruise, and I have not forgotten you.

 

***

Sorry I posted this *after* Mother’s Day. I am just Okayest, after all.

***

Notes:

“While we tend to equate motherhood solely with maternity, in the Lord’s language, the word mother has layers of meaning. Of all the words they could have chosen to define her role and her essence, both God the Father and Adam called Eve “the mother of all living”- and they did so before she ever bore a child.” -Sheri L. Dew, “Are We Not All Mothers?”, LDS General Conference, October 2001

This blog post says it better than I can: http://www.messymiddle.com/2012/05/10/an-open-letter-to-pastors-a-non-mom-speaks-about-mothers-day/

 

 

[Girls Only Please] My Personal Lunapads Story

LunapadsWhy I do I use reusable cloth menstrual pads, you may ask? Well, let me tell you!

It started when my fertility doctor suggested that, because of my endometriosis, I stop wearing tampons. (Keep in mind that this was just one doctor’s opinion.) He believed that tampons could exacerbate the symptoms of endometriosis for several reasons. First, we don’t know what causes endometriosis, and adding the chemicals from tampons might not be a good idea. Tampons have some pretty controversial (i.e., toxic) chemicals in them. Second, endometriosis comes with painful cramps, so using my muscles down there to hold in a tampon might worsen the cramps. I had never thought about it before.

Ok, I thought, what do I do now? I had used tampons since I was about 14. Pads were gross and they were for babies. I reluctantly re-taught myself how to use pads. I hated them. It was gross, stinky, uncomfortable, and sweaty. Somehow, I came across the Lunapads site. I had never heard of reusable pads. For the cost of several months’ worth of disposable pads, I got enough reusable pads to last indefinitely.

They were super cute! I loved them. Suddenly, my period seemed a little more fun and a little less gross. They were so cozy. It was a little weird getting used to the whole thing, but I felt weirdly happy about it all. They were a little bulkier, but I got used to it. Now, when I have to wear a disposable pad or a tampon for some reason, I am pretty grouchy.

The Lunapads come in different sizes, shapes, absorbencies, patterns, and colors. Later, after I really got into this way of doing things, I tried the Lunapanties, which are padded underwear that can hold reusable pad inserts. Now I think all underwear should be slightly padded. Come on, let’s be honest, women are messy! The Lunapads company also sell reusable Diva Cups, which are an alternative to tampons.

When my first son arrived (via adoption: no postpartum bleeding from him), I continued to use the Lunapads. I switched to cloth diapers for my son for a little while, and, I must say, reusable pads are WAY easier than cloth diapers. And cloth diapers aren’t too bad, really, but they do have toxic poop on them. At least your Lunapads won’t have that fate. If you use cloth diapers on your child, why on earth wouldn’t you consider cloth pads for yourself?

When my twins arrived a couple of years later (via my body), I had ten weeks of postpartum bleeding. Ten weeks! While these soft flannel pads are much kinder to a postpartum body than disposable pads, I have to admit that particular time in my life was too upside-down for laundry. Unfortunately, I mostly fell off the reusable wagon for a while. Now that things have calmed down a little, I am now (happily) back in the reusable pad saddle.

And my health? I truly believe that quitting tampons has been good for my health. I am not a doctor, and this is *not* medical advice for you, but in my personal down-there life, reusable pads have helped me. I find that my symptoms of endometriosis are more manageable with Lunapads. Just as the doctor predicted, my cramps are somewhat lighter without the tampons. Additionally, I find that I am getting fewer urinary tract infections since I ditched all disposables. It might be a coincidence, but I don’t think so!

***

I have never used my blog to sell promote something before, but I have been so excited about these things for so long and never knew how to talk to people about them. I finally have my chance. If you want to try them, please use the discount code below, which is linked to ME, and I will get a little kickback from the company for referring you. Win-win. If you are unsure if you want to try them, and you’re local to me, I have UNUSED, NEW samples of the products that I can show you.

What do you think? Would you ever consider reusable pads? Why or why not? I’m curious! I am happy to answer any questions you have!

Enter this code at checkout for 5% off: 515013

***

Fine Print:

-I am not a salesperson. I do not sell any products, and I am not trying to get anyone else to sell any products. However, I am an official “Lunapads Ambassador”, which means that I promote their products. I do receive a straight percentage of each purchase I refer.

-My views expressed here are my own and do not necessarily reflect those of the Lunapads company.

-I am not a doctor and I do not offer medical advice for anyone else’s body other than my own.

A Weekend Away: Okayest Mom Tries to Re-Learn How to Relax

Me: “Is that a baby crying?”

Husband: “Um, no, that’s a goose.”

 

Me: “Is that a baby crying?”

Husband: “Um, no, that’s a hawk.”

 

Me: “Is that a baby crying?”

Husband: “Um, no, that’s your cell phone. Don’t you know what your cell phone sounds like?”

 

Me: “Is that a baby crying?”

Husband: “Um, no, that’s my cell phone. I changed my ring tone to sound like a baby crying.”

 

Pace. Pace. Sit down. Stand up. Sit down. Stand up.

He puts his hand on the back of my neck. I don’t hear anything else.

 

A baby-less waterfall hike in the rain with my man = perfect

A baby-less waterfall hike in the rain with my man = perfect

I Studied Abroad in Italy to Get Back at My Boyfriend, Part 1 (Culture Shock: Food)

Overlooking the sea in Cinque Terre on my 21st birthday

 

Me in Florence, 2000

I studied abroad in Italy in the summer of 2000 to get back at my boyfriend. Yep. Besides shaving my head and getting a tattoo one time after a bad breakup, this was definitely the most un-me thing I ever did. Thank goodness. I changed during my three months there. I grew up. I got stronger physically and emotionally. My man actually didn’t recognize me when I came home. I learned to scream “Va via” (“go away”) at groping men. I learned that I was not a city girl after all. As every traveler learns on her first trip abroad, I learned what I loved about home.

My boyfriend in summer 2000 was future Mr. Okayest. What horrible thing do you think he did to make me leave the country out of spite? Forget my birthday? Ask to go on a “break”? Cheat on me? No, dear readers, it was nothing so lurid. He simply took an internship in another state. I thought he and I would come home from college that summer to be together, and, instead, he (smartly) got an excellent internship. So, out of spite, I thought, “Well, if he’s not coming home, then neither am I. He’s going to leave the state? I’m going to leave the country!” And that is how a ridiculous homebody like me leaves the country.

During the summer of 2000 (“estate duemila”), Italia was a place without air conditioning, computers, and cell phones. I lived in Florence (Firenze), which was a bustling city of nearly half a million, with Gucci, Prada, and Tiffany stores in between each ancient monument and art museum. This was a bustling metropolis, yet somehow it was stuck in time, too, in the most deliciously relaxed way. It was the birthplace of the Renaissance. Homeowners couldn’t even change the paint color on their shutters without permission from the town government. It was one of the fashion centers of the world, but I was just there in my Birkenstocks.

Me in Florence, 2000

My trip to Italy was only 14 years ago, but it seems like another lifetime ago. The summer of 2000 was before the Euro: Italy still used lire. It was before the smoking ban: everyone, from my bank teller to my ice cream man, dropped ashes into my money and food. It was before the iPod: I actually brought a walkman and cassette tapes with me. [Insert sheepish grin here. Embarrassment is not resulting from being so old that I had a walkman and cassette tapes. Instead, embarrassment is caused by being raised by a musician who listens only to quality vinyl.]

I didn’t read about anything before I left. I was a smart/dumb 20-year-old. What I knew about Florence was from my two art history classes. What I knew about Italy was from “The Godfather”. What little Italian language I knew was probably food words or things my future father-in-law had said. There was no Wikipedia to peruse before leaving. I got a travel guidebook at the used bookstore and that was that.

There was no cell phone to take with me. I bought phone cards at the corner markets and called my boyfriend from the nearest payphone. He said it sounded like I was at a racetrack, which was somewhat accurate, since the traffic was crazy enough to knock one of my friend’s shoes off her feet. There was not much internet either. My parents did not have email yet, but of course my boyfriend did. It didn’t matter much because there were only a couple of internet cafes I could use – at exorbitant rates. What I am trying to tell you young whipper-snappers is: back then, when you left, you were gone.

If I remember correctly, I spent a whole summer in Italy for less than three grand. That included airfare. My parents said they supported my decision (although they were completely shocked) if I would handle all the finances myself. I visited the student aid office about a hundred times, and worked out all the details and kinks. I always had a job during college. I had some savings. I borrowed some from a generous aunt and uncle, and I added the rest of the cost to my already-generous student loans. In the late 90s, student loan rates were at a Clinton-inspired record low, so I figured I wouldn’t mind paying for Italy when I was 34 years old. I was right.

Arriving in Italy was a complete shock for this Southern country girl. I wasn’t sure if I was more shocked by city life or by Italian life. Both were a major change for a girl who grew up on a mountain in Virginia and went to college in a rural town whose only claim to fame involved turkeys. Suddenly, I was breathing exhaust fumes and not understanding a word anyone said.

My bedroom in my homestay

My bedroom in my homestay

Our study abroad group was broken up into groups of twos and threes for homestays. I lived with a very formal family who had Sicilian accents that made their Italian even more impossible to understand. We were expected to dress for dinner, not ever be barefoot, and eat whatever was prepared, even if it was fried octopus. As a lactose-intolerant Mormon who doesn’t like chocolate, I will also add that I must have seemed very rude when I declined pretty much every coffee drink ever made.

A Room with a View - MY view

A Room with a View – MY view

Their fancy apartment was on the second floor, but, in Europe, that means about 300 steps. They did not have air conditioning, but neither did anyone else. Even the most famous of paintings were sweating in the Uffizi without air conditioning. We were there during the summer, in a major heat wave. The weather felt a lot like it did at home: hot and sticky. At least something felt like home!

Half our meals were at our homestay, and half our meals were on our own. I learned a few things very quickly about how Italians do food. First, they don’t hurry. The first phrase I had to learn and use was “Il conto, per favore” (“The check, please”). If you don’t ask for the check, the waiter will let you sit there all day. Does your American self bristle at the thought? Well, don’t, because Italians think it’s rude to bring you a check before you have finished relaxing. (I now bristle when American waiters shoo me away from their table with an early check. I mean, I felt that way before kids. Now I don’t really go to restaurants.)

Next, I learned that pasta is just a first course. And it’s not a big portion at all- maybe just a few bites of homemade noodles. Do you think those Italians stay slim with an Olive-Garden-situation? I don’t think so. Same with bread. I never saw a single breadbasket in all of Italy. If we got any bread at all, it would be a tiny hard-as-a-rock little thing sitting beside your plate.

Italy train0010 Oh, and then there’s the fruit. If you reach for a peach at the corner fruit stand, the grocer might actually smack your hand away. Only the seller selects and hands you your fruit. “Why would I want to sell dirty fruit?” Also, they only sell things in season, so you don’t need to worry about picking over the selection to be sure you get something ripe.

I also learned that Italians don’t drink. Water. Italians don’t drink water. We were always so thirsty – and everyone, from the shopkeeper to the homestay mama to the waiter, snickered and giggled about the amount of water we consumed. You don’t really see Italians carrying around a water bottle. And, if you don’t want sparkling water, you better be sure you specify that you want ”still” water. We thought we were in heaven when we found 1-liter bottles of “still” water in the grocery store, but we looked ridiculous carrying them around Italy. (They were maybe the size of a Big Gulp from home, so it didn’t seem weird to us.)

Typical tiny Italian breakfast

So, not only was I thirsty, but I was starving. I was starving in Italy! I was in one of the world’s most beloved culinary meccas, and I was starving all the time. I was used to big, American portions. I was used to a lot of fat and a lot of calories. I was a meat and potatoes girl who was completely out of her element in the world of fresh food. Besides, I was walking over eight miles a day to and from class and meals (and clubs), and burning more calories than I ever had. I lost quite a bit of weight that wasn’t mine to lose.

I was constantly in awe of the beauty of the colors, the food, the people, and the art. I felt alive with all that beauty. But I surprised myself by feeling a little deadened inside from being away from all that was familiar, and being away from the people who loved me. I realized that I was indeed an introvert. I was an introverted country girl in a big city in another country where no one knew me, and everything was so beautiful it hurt. My heart hurt to see all these beautiful things without the mother who used to tell me that “You’re my piece of blue Italian sky” because she never got to travel… and my heart hurt to see all those beautiful things without the man I was to marry. I wanted to go home, and come back with the people I loved.

 

My view, walking home over the Arno River

 

Stay tuned for Part 2, in which I will scare you with: I Studied Abroad in Italy to Get Back at my Boyfriend, Part 2 (Culture Shock: Men).

I am a Lunapads Reusable Menstrual Pads Ambassador (and I have a discount code!)

Okay, people, this is gonna get personal. And maybe gross. And definitely awesome.

If you are a man, especially if you are man who is related to me (brother, uncle, cousin, grandpa…), STOP READING NOW. This is about periods!

If you are a woman, especially if you are a woman who:

  • Has periods
  • Has a daughter
  • Is interested in natural products for her body
  • Is interested in the environment
  • Is interested in saving money
  • Is interested in preparedness
  • Uses cloth diapers on your child
  • Is wondering when in the world did menstrual products become so plastic-y and perfumey

….then please keep reading.

Here goes. I use REUSABLE, WASHABLE MENSTRUAL PADS. Are you totally grossed out? Don’t be.

Lunapads Reusable Menstrual Pads

Purty, huh?

Reusable pads are not nearly as gross as you might think. They are not as much hard work as you might think. And they are cozier than you might think. I’ve been using them for several years now, and I have now become an ambassador to the company Lunapads. This means that I can give you a code for 5% off their products, AND I get a kick-back for referring you. So, yes, for the first time, I am using my blog to sell promote something. I tell the world about something I love, and you and I both win.

The first time I used these reusable pads, I was surprised how much better it felt than plastic pads. It was like the difference between wearing an overly scented garbage bag between your legs and wearing a cozy pair of flannel pajama pants between your legs. I was sold.

Quick FAQs:

  • But how does it work? They are shaped exactly like pads, but instead of adhesive, they have a tiny snap. You wear a base pad, and then change the “inserts” throughout the day. Easy.
  • But how do you, you know, deal with them and wash them? Short answer: You can wash them in the washing machine and dry them in the dryer. You can pre-soak them or not. Long answer: I keep an opaque jar in my bathroom, with a mesh laundry bag in it. I fill it with water and just let the pads soak in there. At the end of the day, I either change the water, or I take the jar down to the washing machine. To wash them, I transfer the mesh laundry bag to the washer, and then the dryer – and I never touch them. I wash the whole bag with my other clothes. It doesn’t get anything gross – I promise! The pads don’t even stain if you soak them like I do.
  • Are they bulky? Yes, they are a little bulkier than plastic disposable pads, because you’re using real cotton instead of plastic to soak stuff up. I personally prefer to wear skirts, dresses, or a long shirt to cover my bum when I am wearing reusable pads.
  • Do they leak? Not any more than any other product. Like any menstrual product, change it!
  • Are you crazy? No. Maybe.

 I have never used my blog to sell promote something before, but I have been so excited about these things for so long and never knew how to talk to people about them. I finally have my chance. If you want to try them, please use the discount code below, which is linked to ME, and I will get a little kickback from the company for referring you. Win-win. If you are unsure if you want to try them, and are local to me, I have UNUSED, NEW samples of the products that I can show you.

What do you think? Would you ever consider reusable pads? Why or why not? I’m curious! I am happy to answer any questions you have!

Enter this code at checkout for 5% off: 515013

 

Fine Print:

-I am not a salesperson. I do not sell any products, and I am not trying to get anyone else to sell any products. However, I am an official “Lunapads Ambassador”, which means that I *promote* their products. I do receive a straight percentage of each purchase I refer.

-The views I expressed here are my own and do not necessarily reflect the views of the Lunapads company.