Part II of Detoxing From 31 Day Better Blogger Challenge: Overcoming the Urge to Douche My Vagina

As I discussed in my last post, I spent the last month participating in the 31 Day Better Blogger Challenge that was conducted by the Sits Girls community, which I explain in further detail here.

I started out with a bang as I rubbed fallopian tubes with other blogging women and felt inspired by the communal spirit.

But it didn't take long for my new found inspiration to turn sour as I became lost among a plethora of never ending recipes, crafts, organizational tips, nuclear family romanticism, and an overwhelming use of the word "mommy". That's right, I was water logged in a sea of mommy bloggers.

Before I go further into my mommy blog angst, I feel that I should clarify the following points for the purpose of self defense:

1. Some of my favorite blogs are parenting blogs, or at least blogs written by people who are parents and regularly write about their children and child rearing in general.

2. I know that child rearing is extremely important, not only in regards to the development of children, but also in regards to the overall health of a society.

3. I perceive parenting as an extremely challenging, yet rewarding commitment and I empathize with the compromises that parents make.

4. I have full respect for stay at home parents and see great value in what they do and perceive them as equally as purposeful as people who work in the public sphere. When/if I have children, I intend to stay at home with them when they're young if at all possible.

5. I am no hater of stereotypically feminine hobbies. I watch HGTV. I talk to cats in a voice that makes me sound like I am a midget high on Ecstasy. Sometimes I even like to talk about my feelings and then cry afterward and blame it on my hormones. Although I will admit that I do not like cleaning. Did you know that a bar of soap that sits unused on the edge of your bath tub can go moldy? It can. Fascinating, really.

That being said. . .

This challenge opened my eyes to a wide demographic of mommy bloggers, and I got to the point where every time I was designated a blog to visit and comment on, I would hope to God it wouldn't be another mommy blog. And it always would be. At two and a half weeks into the challenge, I found myself wanting to wrap my lips around the barrel of a gun in hopes that the misery would end.

I do understand that blogging has given stay-at-home parents, particularly moms, an outlet to express themselves, socialize, and develop an easily accessible community. Totally surpasses Tupperware parties and is way healthier than abusing Lithium. And as a result, mommy blogging has given stay-at-home moms a sense of purpose that extends beyond the private sphere, which can be perceived as progressive and empowering. But for me the blogosphere's saturation of mommy bloggers quickly became stifling as I struggled to find my footing within this demographic.

My breaking point came when I stumbled across a number of particularly aggravating blog posts. One was written by a stay at home Wiccan mother of six children.

Her blog post was an attack on those who perceive staying at home with children as being a luxury (mother's of course, not father's, because according to another mommy blogger, although women would be better suited than men to run the country (US), it wouldn't work because no one would be around to raise the kids to become good people). Her argument was that staying at home with children is the furthest thing from a luxury. BECAUSE HER FAMILY IS POOR AND LIVES ON A TIGHT BUDGET. HOW IS THAT LUXURIOUS?! IT WAS A COMPROMISE SHE MADE FOR THE BETTERMENT OF HER KIDS, OKAY? SHE ACTUALLY CARES ABOUT HER KIDS.

Cough. Not that she'd make enough money to surpass the cost of child care for six kids, anyway. Cough.

I, of course, wanted to respond with two, passionate and meaningful words:

Fuck off.

But I maintained an aura of class and refrained. Not for the sake of my own mother, because my own mother is probably thinking the same thing. And my mother's mother would have actually responded with "fuck off" if she had ever used that kind of crude language. No, I refrained because some stay-at-home moms write letters and form campaigns against popular musical artists for wrecking their children's minds. Because they enforce things like ineffectual gun control regulations that cost Canadian people millions of dollars. Because they scare me.

And then there was the woman who believes that gay marriage should be segregated from the church and religion altogether, because Jesus Christ our Savior only acknowledges heterosexual marriage. In fact, those who want to marry outside of the church aren't really even getting married, as true marriage is defined by religious devotion, so these people are free to officially unite, but should be using a different term altogether, like maybe love buddies? Special friends? It would be a simple solution to the gay marriage debate in the States.

And then there was the comment to that post from another mommy blogger who believes that divorce should be outlawed. In case you missed that, THAT DIVORCE SHOULD BE OUTLAWED. 

THAT DIVORCE SHOULD BE OUTLAWED.

Because that, of course, would remedy things like domestic abuse and spousal murder. And of course children being raised in households with parents who hate each other but cannot escape each other and are perpetually filled with rage and lose all will to live is a great environment for children to be raised. And suddenly I found myself gripping my computer monitor. Violently. And overwhelmed with the urge to douche my vagina, again and again (and again) for no other reason but to cleanse myself of the shame I felt in that particular moment for being a female blogger.

Instead, I closed the window and walked away from my computer. And I officially became emotionally detached from the Sits Girls 31 Day Better Blogger Challenge. So while I still finished the e-book on my own time, I stopped posting on the forum and participating in the community.

I dropped out.

I deeply debated writing this. Discussing topics related to female domestication are things I have learned to steer away from-- the "don't go there" topics. Because I haven't endured labour, and because I don't want to  march myself to my own stake burning. I am all for people sharing their views, but when conflicting view points seem to be perceived as anti-social and the only responses to these posts, which I will now refer to as "bubble posts", seeing as how many of these women seem to live in bubbles, are complacent ones, and agreeable ones, and fully supportive ones that offer no further discussion or deeper dialogue, I start to feel like my soul is being smothered by a pillow. That is adorned in a home-made, floral pillow case.

So I soon came to the realization that for many women participating in this challenge, blogging was more about celebrating motherhood as a bourgeoisie, middle class idealism than anything else--  mass masturbating to a mid-century celebration of a time when a woman's identity was revolved around cooking, cleaning, child rearing, and other stereotypically feminine interests like fashion, trinkets, keeping house, consumerism, and ignoring the negative social attributes historically bred from that one-dimensional role.

And while these women pow-wowed in celebration (and defense) of their choice to stay at home with their children, I was disturbed at how they had unknowingly created a limited paradigm (that I believe they originally intended to avoid) by reinforcing narrow notions of what it means to assume the role of stay-at-home mom, like arguing that they are not trying to adhere to a house wife ideal by weighing their worth on things like house keeping, then boasting about how awesome they are at house keeping in a 1000 word blog post. And then posting a ten point list post about house keeping strategies the day after. And then 65 other women leave comments about how the post was so insightful. Ironically, while celebrating their own life choices, which, more often than not, seemed to be made possible by the financial stability of the men in their lives, they seemed to overlook the fact that their boisterous pow-wowing was alienating women who had made other choices, or women who have no choices at all.

According to many of the mommy blogs I visited (and don't get me wrong, maybe I just had really bad luck at which mommy blogs I was designated to hit), poverty doesn't exist beyond budgeting within a one income household. Women who have to work to keep themselves and their babies fed? Apparently they don't exist. Single mothers? What are those? Domestic abuse? What's that? Undependable, unsupportive husbands? Huh? The fact that so many of these women seemed ignorant to what's going on outside of their own rosey suburbanism demonstrated that they do experience luxuries that many women don't. And that's great, except for the fact that many of them are oblivious to their blessings. And that makes me want to hold a Tupperware burning.

And I would if Tupperware wasn't so practical.

And expensive.

And if lighting it on fire wouldn't release toxins into the atmosphere.

Obviously I don't fit in within this niche.

In fact, I don't fit in with a lot of women. During this challenge I started having my recurring nightmares about my best friends from high school, and I have finally realized why I have those dreams.

I have women issues.

It's taken years to make this correlation, but now I know that my nightmares about my old best friends aren't actually about my old best friends. They're about my feelings of alienation from some of the women is my life. Now. Currently. Like Mommy Bloggers. And in a way, that's a relief, because I was starting to wonder if I had marinated into some sort of woman-baby who was unable to get over her ex-girl friends. No. I just have women issues. Obviously my old best friends symbolize female rejection to my subconscious.  And ostracization.  And because I don't feel like I fit in with a lot of women, and then endure this fucked up, inner tug-of-war between frustration, guilt, and a repressed wish that I could just belong, I end up feeling really shitty. And dream about torture. I mean my last year of high school.

I've been at this fork in the road before, where one path leads me to fakin' it and fitting in, and one path leads me to staying true to myself even if it means being lonely sometimes, or at a disadvantage at promoting my blog in the women's corner of the blogosphere. Inevitably I always choose to stay true to myself because deep down I know that throwing myself in with a bunch of women who make me feel frustrated will inevitably just make me feel more frustrated. So, I made the decision to follow the churning in my gut, and accept the fact some women may be offended that I am challenging what I perceive as the revival of the cult of domesticity, and may not want to read my blog or be my friend.

I write critical blog posts like this in honor of the people in my own life whose voices tend to get lost among the buzz of the bandwagon: my mother, who also shares critical views about cookie-cutter, mommy culture; for my home girl Laura, a separated mother of three young kids who works night shift with me and who I have seen so exhausted that her eyes don't properly align;  for my best friend who is a lively and successful career woman who craves life partnership and worries that she will never find it; for my boyfriend who lives in camp three weeks out of the month and stresses that if he becomes a father he will be a stranger to his child; and for myself and my own clumsy struggle to get where I so desperately want to go. I salute all the people out there who have tripped and fallen and forged ahead on bloodied knees, and despite uncomfortable disappointments, still laugh, joke, share, speak honestly, and find pleasure in the simple things, and even though we may bitch, and moan, and lose our shit and cry sometimes, we still appreciate our blessings, although diverse and sometimes unequal, and we realize that there are so many people out there who have is so, so, so much worse.

In my next post titled, Part III: Life After Rehab, I will discuss some of my own blessings and struggles, and how they relate to my experience participating in this challenge. I will also go into further detail about trying to find my place within the blogosphere, or if finding a place to fit is even necessary, and the difficult road ahead in my attempt to transform my aspirations into something more than just a hobby.

In the meantime, I will overcome the urge to douche my vagina.

My First Spiritual Cleansing With an Aura Ninja

A few weeks ago Mom got her aura read at a neighborhood party.

The Reiki master, AKA Aura Ninja, came back last week to administer another healing, and my Mom was like, Oh My God, WANT TO? I was like, Oh My God, YES.

So I got up early before work to go with Mom for a spiritual rub down. We walked into my mom's friend's yard and was greeted by her kids, four canines. The friend's husband warned me that the German Shepherd had been abused, so I was cautious as I tried to slip by him. But of course my mother, the dog whore, had to pet them all, and rub them behind their ears, and talk to them in her retarded dog voice, which is simply a more mature version of my retarded cat voice, and while I awkwardly lingered and waited for her to pull it together, I felt the German Shepherd's nose ascend up my ass.

Do I need to remind you why I am a cat person?

You will all be comforted in knowing that my womanly schedule has resumed its normalcy back to a 28 day cycle. LOOK HOW INTIMATE WE'VE BECOME. So when Patches, the German Shepherd, had his nose up my ass, all I could think about was that Pop Up Video for Madonna's Like a Virgin that included some factoid about Madonna being asked if she was menstruating before she shot the scene with the lion because lions are attracted to the scent of blood and have a high likelihood of eating menstruating women.

I anxiously anticipated being mauled by Patches, but instead the husband scolded him for his intimate explorations and he withdrew. You know what's worse than having a dog's snout journey up your personal atmosphere? Having other people publicly notice.

When it was my turn to have my reading done, I followed the Aura Ninja, a petite, pleasant man who wore a hippie shirt, into the back room of the house. Two of the dogs followed me. Naturally. Always popular in all the wrong ways. I laid on the rub down table and the Aura Ninja tried to gently shoo my fan club out of the room, causing the alpha dog to whine in detest.

He shut the door and comforted me by telling me that he would not be touching me -- not like the shady chiropractor with the office on 32nd street who stroked my face and told me I was pretty, and then had me put on a gown and contort my legs into pornographic positions as he pretended not to stare at my vaj-j through my lace panties. Or the manager at my work who grabbed my head while I was on my knees and humped it in front of my seventeen year old co-worker and then got fired. No, he would just be moving his hands above my body, conducting positive energy flow.

"Do you know how to ground yourself?"

I said no. He said he'd do it for me.

I tried my best to go to my happy place, a room of white overlooking the ocean with open windows and soft linens. A desk. A pen. A stack of crisp paper.

The Aura Ninja's tummy gurgled. I began to think about farts, the ones you don't let out and then they pop and groan inside your intestines. I wondered if he had to fart. Maybe he had to fart and it was giving him a tummy ache, and here he was trying to fill a room full of suburban jerks with positive light (at no charge) and all he wanted to do was let a good one rip. "It's okay if you need to fart," I wanted to say. "My boyfriend does it in front of me all the time." But that's the type of thought I only verbalize when I am drunk, so I kept my mouth shut.

I was wowed by how fast the Aura Ninja got into the zone. Anyone who knows anything about meditation knows that getting into the zone is not an easy feat. I don't think I have ever successfully gotten there by conscious choice. Aura Ninja's breathing changed as he began the spiritual rub down at my feet.

My college boyfriend poses in a banana hammock to demonstrate the multi layers of his aura.

I reminded myself to focus. I shot back to my happy place and closed my eyes. Take my negative energy, I thought to myself, take it, Ninja.

When he got to my abdomen, his breathing became more tired. He moved his hand over my uterus in a fast motion, as if trying to clean three month old marker off of a white board. He had found my period. I wondered if my low iron was making him feel spiritually fatigued. Is he experiencing menstrual cramping? Oh God, the poor guy already has to fart. I started to feel bad.

Right. Focus. I was struggling. I thought about all the negative energy I had stored inside of my body escaping and floating up towards the ceiling. I was trying.  

After enjoying a relaxing swim at the local pool, two women compare the auras shining from their lady parts.

As he made his way up towards my head, he heaved and sighed as if dragging a 500 lbs boulder up a hill. I wondered if this was normal or if I had a high maintenance aura. Once again, he vigorously rubbed as if working a knot out of my brain. By this point I could feel the energy from his hands. Now, just so my Atheist, science devoted, University of Saskatchewan friends know, I am not saying that I could feel the rub n' tug of God, or that I was absorbing some sort of supernatural power from the heavens. So calm down. All I am saying is that I could sense his bodily energy, which felt like certain parts of my body were being weighted under pressure, somewhat resembling the sensation of water pressure.

When he was done he stood back and said, "wow!"

"What is it?!"

"Boy, is there ever a lot going on inside your head."

I laughed. "I know."

"You're constantly thinking and analyzing everything. I haven't experienced someone who thinks as much as you do in months."

"That doesn't surprise me." I told him that I am a writer but refrained from telling him that I am a sociology grad who is constantly creating and critiquing thesis ideas in my head-- I didn't want to scare him.

"That explains a lot. If you shut off your mind a bit and just be, your creativity will soar. You will do many great things."

I nodded. Over the past couple of years I've come to realize this, albeit in bits and pieces, and I've hinted towards it in past blog posts, but the line between writing and thought control is blurry. Sure, shutting off your mind as a visual artist is easy. But as a writer? I have yet to figure out how to do that.

"What are your thoughts on dreams?" I asked him.

"Well, sometimes our dreams offer us guidance when we are unable to consciously sort through issues on our own. Why do you ask? What have you been dreaming of?"

The week before I had dreamt about Satan watching me at a distance, the type of grotesque, demon creature that even horror movies can't create, and then there were the maggots and the flies. The day prior I had a horrible dream where I was sexually assaulted in a particularly humiliating way. I had an audience. They were laughing at me.

"Oh, nothing in particular," I responded. "But I have certain dreams that I perceive as guidance dreams, and I was just wondering if that was familiar to you."            

"Very much so."

"I do have some pretty disturbing dreams though." Cough. Cough.

"Disturbing dreams are nothing to be alarmed by. Some dreams come to us as a way to work through issues from past lives. You don't have much baggage from this life, but you have a lot of baggage from past lives."

Most rational people would be rolling their eyes, putting up walls, and thinking, holy shit, this guy dropped a lot of acid in the 70's, but his mystical, outer-limits-like comment reflected something that I've thought for a long time. There are reasons, but they're personal and I am probably already being scoffed at, so I will end the past life discussion there.

My mom had her aura rub down after I did, and when we were on our way home, I told her about my experience with the Aura Ninja.

"He said something about you to me, too. I asked him if I could tell you and he said yes."

"What did he say?"

"He asked me if you had a boyfriend and said to be careful."

My heart sank a little as I prepared to hear some sort of premonition about how my current relationship is doomed for heart ache, and then I'd have negative, psychic bullshit whispering, he's not the one, or you still suck at life, Lojo, you still suck at life, thus causing me inevitable mind fuck.

"Oh no," I said, "why did he ask?"

"He said he could feel a powerful energy coming from you and he thinks you're very fertile. So he said to be careful if you're not wanting a baby right now."

"I AM ON MY PERIOD. FIRST THE DOGS HAVE THEIR SNOUTS UP MY PRIVATES, THEN DUDE TRIES TO TWIDDLE AN IMAGINARY FIRE ABOVE MY UTERUS, AND NOW I AM SUPPOSEDLY IN TURBO BABY-MAKING MODE. CAN'T A WOMAN JUST HAVE HER PERIOD?"

My Mom laughed and agreed that possibly the uterine contractions I was experiencing-- the uterine contractions that were so gnarly that I was popping codeine every four hours-- was why he had sensed a surge of energy radiating from my lady parts.

Oh, life. It's just not as romantic as it is in the movies. Or new age spirituality. Nor is it as attractive.

And as for why he mentioned this to my mother and not me, who knows.

All in all, I greatly enjoyed the experience and I look forward to going back when my uterus isn't throwing dogs, Aura Ninjas, and energy from alter plains off course.

And I promise my male readers that I will not mention my period for at least three months. So let's chug a beer and bump chests.


Happy Mother's Day

My first video blog: a tribute to my Mom in celebration of Mother's Day.

A tribute to my Mom from Lojo Manifesto on Vimeo.

And here is another Mother's Day video I made in tribute to my friend Laura, AKA Rainbow Sunshine: