Department Of I Thought It First, But She Said It Out Loud
Writer and social critic Fran Lebowitz, responding to a question as to why she often gives the impression of being so angry, or why she is perceived to be so angry, either at an individual person’s behavior and/or situations around her:
“I have no power. But I am filled with opinions.”
( Fran Lebowitz, Pretend It’s a City )
Speaking of which (re having no power and being filled with opinions)….
Department Of I Usually Like Learning New Things
…but moiself is confident that I could have gone to my grave/urn/ashes scattering ceremony/medical cadaver lab in peace without knowing that there is such a thing as a yoni steam.
There; I said it (okay; typed it). Yoni steam.
Alas, there will be no such peace, for me. While searching for yoga studios in my area which might offer a tai chi or other classes of interest, I found a new (to me) place which offers a variety of yoga classes, massage, and other “wellness” services. In a website blurb the business briefly listed the services they offer, including, yoni steam.
Yoni steam. Um…say what? That got my attention, as moiself was fairly certain sure that yoni was the Sanskrit term for vagina. Nah; it’s gotta be something else. It’s something else, all righty, as judging from the service description I clicked on: [1]
” Yoni steam, $50.00
Sit back and enjoy your time alone while sitting over a pot of warm herbs. Yoni steam has been shown to help balance your PH levels, improve odor, decrease dryness, improve menstral (sic) cycle, and increase libido.
Yoni steaming is the practice of allowing warm steam to permeate the exterior of the vagina. Use this time to allow connection with the body and plant medicine. Steaming is suggested just before and after your cycle to help with cramps, bloating and balancing your PH.”
No, Martha, it’s not, and you’d better stop smoking whatever Snoop Dogg is sharing with you if you’ve fallen down that rabbit hole.
If you think your yoni needs servicing you need to see a yoni specialist gynecologist, not a yoni steamer, FFS. You do not need to shell out $50 to squat over a glorified potpourri prepared by someone who uses woo-woo language to refer to lady parts and who can’t even spell menstrual. And what is this balancing your PH crap – how would a glorified spa employee accurately assess whether your PH is out of balance without sticking a litmus test strip up your (non-steamy) yoni?
Here’s an internet search summary of the practice (my emphases):
“Yoni steaming, also known as vaginal steaming or V-steaming, is an alternative medicine [2] practice that involves sitting over a pot of hot, herb-infused water while unclothed from the waist down. The goal is to cleanse the vulva and absorb the herbal steam through the pores to enhance blood flow and promote healing.”
From what I gathered, some people say v-steaming can “…help with a variety of uterine issues, restore health and balance, and ease the transition through life phases.” That latter phrase is code for a school of thought which defines a woman’s life as a series of “phases” – read: conditions or even diseases – which need to be managed, and that everything revolves around the reproductive cycle ( “Are you pre/post/peri/quasi – /kinda/neo/retro/over/under/uber menopausal? We’ve got a pill/injection/cream/steam for you!” ). And those some people are those who will financially benefit from selling a product/treatment (“service”) to women whom they’ve convinced will benefit from it.
Other folks – e.g., moiself and every medical professional I worked with in my former life as a reproductive health educator/medical assistant [3] – would say the y-steaming practice is yet another gimmick which reflects Western societies’ traditional (read: repressive and shame-based) values of women and the lifelong critiquing and managing of their bodies, specifically their sexual and reproductive parts, which are presented as needing constant…”attention.”
In that former life, my colleagues and I spent a lot of time educating women about why they should *not* use the so-called “feminine hygiene/cleansing” products that had been ferociously marketed to them since adolescence. The vagina is self-cleansing; women are not “dirty’ after menstruation or intercourse; douching has been sold as a remedy for problems that mostly do not exist (and also mistakenly sold as a form of birth control, as in, wash that icky sperm right outta there…when actually, what post coital-douching does is give those swimmers a speedboat push up toward the cervix). We were happy to note that fewer women were falling for that woman-shaming practice, and that our patients knew that douching is “…harmful and should be discouraged because of its association with pelvic inflammatory disease, ectopic pregnancy, and other conditions….” [4]
Most women nowadays seem to understand that a woman should never douche or otherwise “clean” her vaginal canal, except for those rare times (as in, for post-surgical care for certain, rare procedures) when one is instructed to do so by their medical professional (the doctor or nurse practitioner or physician’s assistant, not the receptionist or office manager). When I left that world, I was confident that douching, a medically needless and even harmful practice rooted in ignorance and shame, was dying out. Then a few days ago moiself finds out that yoni steaming is a thing.
Why should this surprise me? Ain’t never been a shortage of folks – both on “the other side” and those disguising (deluding) themselves as being pro-woman – who exploit to turn a woman’s body and natural cycles into conditions that need to be managed and “balanced.” The yoni steam is just a douche-wolf wrapped in sheep’s clothing.
Step 1. Keep it away from your yoni.
* * *
Department Of Memory Sparked By A Notable Figure’s Death
That notable figure would be the writer, producer, and activist most known for hosting his eponymous, innovative daytime talk show, Phil Donahue.
Moiself’s relation with The Donahue Show was sporadic; I watched it occasionally during the nursing-my-offspring years, and sometimes during my exercise sessions. I’d never been a daytime talk show fan, but I appreciated Donahue’s groundbreaking approach and willingness to feature guests who ruffled the feathers of the social, cultural religious, political and entertainment establishments. He had a few missteps over the years; e.g., he was somewhat patronizing to the Freedom From Religion Foundation‘s co-president, minister-turned-atheist Dan Barker, and editor and author and FFRF cofounder Annie Laurie Gaylor (ala “oh my gosh, scary atheists, you’re taking it too far…“) [5] when they were guests on his show in 1998. But Donahue was the first – and for a time he was the only – talk show host to realize that the women watching his show and those in the audience had opinions and solutions and were interested in politics and world affairs, and not just fashion and meringue recipes. And he gave them a voice by giving them his microphone, to both question his guests and voice their opinions and feedback.
Two of Donahue’s show’s guests are the subject of this memory I will share. Dateline: 30+ years ago; early in my marriage to MH; working at two Bay Area Planned Parenthood clinics. One Friday afternoon MH had some kind of work conference that was fairly local but far away enough that he was given a hotel room for an overnight stay, and since I had that day off he asked me to join him. It was a smoggy day; while MH was at a meeting I attempted to go for a walk, then decided to protect my lungs and return to the hotel room and get in some exercise before meeting MH for dinner. When I turned on our hotel room’s TV, there was the Donahue Show. To my proverbial jaw-dropping surprise, among a group/panel of Donahue’s guests who were “promoting alternative sexualities” (I did not see the show from the start, so I’m not exactly sure what that day’s theme was) were two people I recognized: a young woman, Caryn, and her “boyfriend,” Richie. [6]
Caryn was a new clinic assistant in the Planned Parenthood clinic where I worked. Richie came to work with Caryn, almost every day. He didn’t just drop her off and leave ( I’m not sure if he drove her there or if she drove the two of them); he would find an excuse to hang around in the waiting room and/or return when her shift ended. I’m not sure of Richie’s employment status; frankly, I tried to show as little interest in them as possible in order not to encourage their mutual, “It’s all about us, PAY ATTENTION AND NOTE HOW SPECIAL WE ARE !!!” obsession. But whether or not her coworkers showed any interest, [7] Caryn and Richie made sure that their personal business was everyone’s business.
Y’all know or have known such people – you may have even worked with them. Remember how tiresome it can get, sharing work space and responsibilities with fanatical attention whores seekers?
None of Caryn’s coworkers ever asked about her personal life; nevertheless, we were treated to her frequent recitations of her and Richie’s relationship. Which seemed to be the point of her existence: she was on a not-so-subtle mission to have her and Richie be considered the most unique (“freaky!”) couple you’d ever met. Your not being shocked by (or interested in) their lifestyle was of obvious disappointment to them.
The reason I qualified Richie’s “boyfriend” status was because that’s how he was introduced to me:
Caryn (amid much giggling by her and Richie):
“And this is Richie, my (air quotes) boyfriend. BOY friend…for now….”
Moiself:
“Nice to meet you Richie.
Did Caryn mention that you are not allowed back in the clinic area?”
Caryn and Richie were proud of *not* being the typical young hetero couple, and they wanted, with a yearning approaching desperation, for everyone to know why. Some context is in order: This was the San Francisco Bay area in the late 80s, where, for example, the Exotic Erotic Ball , an annual costume party held on the night before Halloween from 1979 – 2009, was considered the epitome of the area’s anything-goes culture. Now, let’s say you’re a puerile, histrionic, sexuality-focused attention-seeker living in an area where gay, lesbian, bisexual, pansexual, multi-sexual, cross-dressing, up-and-down-dressing, not-dressing, is considered old hat – or worst, for attention-seekers, even conventional. How, then, do you stand out? And those two really wanted to stand out.
It wasn’t their sexuality/gender-bending obsession that irritated me; rather, it was the attitudes they projected, which were befitting of insecure, self-absorbed ten-year-olds and not grown-ass adults:
“Look at me! Look at us! We are different; we’re special!
Please give us a just a whiff of disapproval
so that we can exult in lecture you on your judgmentalism.”
Every other shift I worked with Caryn she found a reason to mention, to either moiself or another clininician, that she was gay and Richie was in the process of “transitioning,” but that Richie’s transitioning was different from the usual transition! Her announcements would be met with tolerant silences, followed by relevant comments such as, “Uh huh. Could you get the hematocrit readings from the lab log?” from her coworkers. Caryn was not good at hiding her dismay at the lack of follow-up questions, and she would find some excuse reason to elaborate on the topic of Richie’s transition and her and Richie’s relationship.
I was a couple of steps above Caryn in the clinic assistant hierarchy, and had briefly helped with her initial training. During those trying days she found ways/excuses to mention that she was gay/lesbian (her terms varied) and was concerned about receiving equal treatment. I began to wish for the opportunity (which never arose) wherein she would whine about me being rude by not showing interest in her personal life and thus I must be LGBTQ-phobic, so that I could tell her,
Congratulations, you have achieved the equality you say you seek. I am treating you as I would any other narcissistic bore, and couldn’t care less about how you LGBTQ-BFD spin it. You’re acting like an immature ass; thus, I ‘ll give you the same respect I would give an immature ass in a three piece Brooks Brothers suit. So please, STFU and do your job. [8]
Caryn’s You-have-anything-better-to-do-than-to-hang-out-here? boyfriend Richie was actually quite a looker. He had a chiseled/angular facial bone structure and piercing dark eyes which were sometimes obscured by his shoulder-length, curly, brownish-red hair. Overall, his features were classically masculine; he was lean and tall, and his muscular physique included ample body hair (particularly on the legs), which Caryn’s coworkers were privy to because Richie’s typical attire was a short sleeved, v-neck tee or polo shirt tucked into a kilt-type man/skirt garment. And the reason for Ritchie’s transitioning (at least, the reason both Caryn and Richie found excuses to share with Caryn’s coworkers) was that although they were– of course! and enthusiastically! – having sex, Richie wanted to be with Caryn, sexually, as a female, and not as a male. You see, Richie had the soul of a lesbian trapped inside the body of a male model man. Or, to use Caryn’s favorite, oh-so-overused catchphrase description, Richie was “a dyke with a dick.“
Caryn and Richie were really proud of Richie’s dick – and so very fond it that Richie’s transition to being a woman was going to be different from your run-of-the-mill, man-to-trans woman, because Richie was transitioning not to be a heterosexual woman who has sex with men, but to be a lesbian in order to have lesbian sex with his lesbian girlfriend, only with his dick still…hanging around.
Got that? Neither did most of Caryn’s coworkers…
…which was the point of Caryn’s convoluted narratives. Because any trace of a “Uh, how’s that work?” expression [9] that flitted across a coworker’s face was an excuse for Caryn to go through the whole speil, again.
So, from context to content: there I am, in the hotel room. I turn on the TV, start doing reverse pushups on a chair, and I see Caryn and Richie on Donahue’s guest panel. The host is going from panelist to panelist (there are about a dozen), making introductions, and is asking Caryn about her and Richie’s relationship. I am gobsmacked; this is Caryn’s supreme fantasy. She is getting what she’s dreamed of: a national audience (this was way before cell phones and social media). Sure enough, Caryn manages to get in her tagline, which I’d bet she and Richie were hoping wouuld be their ticket to tagline immortality (or at least 15 minutes of fame), ala SNL catchphrases:
* You look mahvelous!
* I’ve got a fever… and the only prescription… is more cowbell!
* We are two wild and crazy guys!
* Well isn’t that special/Could it be… Satan?
When Donohue notes that Caryn’s and Richie’s relationship may be confusing to some people, he sets them up to deliver the phrase they intended and hoped would be a shocker. Caryn mentions how she is attracted to Richie because he’s a lesbian in the body of a man: “I like to think of him as a dyke with a dick.”
Finally, Caryn and Richie get the response they’ve been hoping from: audible gasps from the audience. And there I am, in a hotel room, face palming my forehead and saying to myself, “Please please please do NOT say where you work.” [10]
My concern was for the financial stability of my PP clinic. I’d wager that very few people, including most of the clinic workers, knew the history of how the PP clinics of San Mateo County were funded, and that they were established by both Republicans and conservatives as well as liberals and Democrats. Many Republicans back then (including my in-laws) would tell you that “true” conservatives supported PP’s mission – after all, what could be more anti-big-government than supporting the right of people to be free from government interference when it came down to determining the size of their families and managing their own health care?
Hanging in the halls of the PP clinic’s administration wing were a series of framed pictures of older men and women. Every day when I arrived for a shift I walked down the hall which led from the back entrance to the clinic, and I’d never paid attention to those pictures. Then, one morning I passed the PP second-in-command in that hallway, and she took note of the button I’d clipped to the strap of my purse:
She pointed at the button and said, “I’m a Republican. Do you think I should have a lobotomy?” Gulp. I removed the button from my purse strap. stammeringly assuring her that I never wore political “statements” of any kind when I was on duty. She proceeded to give me a tour of that wall of faces – faces of the old, conservative, Republican men and women whose initial and ongoing financial contributions ensured that the clinic stayed open and that services were available to all, regardless of ability to pay.
And there is always another thing, isn’t there? Caryn came to work dressed rather rattily, in the hobo chic style that was popular with the financially secure miscreants [11] of the day. She looked as if she’d paid good money for clothing that had been torn and stained to give the impression that the person attired in such outfits was above the judgements of mainstream society. She also wore an excess of jewelry that was not appropriate for work ( one doctor mentioned to me privately, that he thought her spiky rings and piercings were a hygienic hazard in the clinic [12] ) and several times she came to work wearing t-shirts with provocative and ribald political and sexual slogans printed on the front, slogans which were just barely/inconsistently hidden by the lab coat she had to don in the clinic. That was a dress code no-no, but no clinic manager ever mentioned it to Caryn (that I knew of), and I sure wasn’t going to open that particular gender-inclusive can of worms.
That is, until one afternoon when the clinic lead tapped me on the shoulder and asked to speak with me privately for just a moment. We stepped into the lab; she said that this was difficult/awkward for her to bring up, but that my habit of wearing brightly-colored clothing – she pointed past the hem of my lab coat to the teal green mid-calf-length skirt and multi-colored geometric patterned ankle socks I wore – had caught the eye of someone in the administration, who found my attire “unprofessional.”
I told her she might remember that I did not dress that way when I started at the clinic, but began doing so more regularly after I’d worn a colorful shirt/skirt/socks combination one day and several of my patients told me how nice it was to see “joy and color” in a clinical setting – a setting they’d really rather not be in. [13]
The clinic lead smiledn nodded, then averted her eyes when I asked her if anyone was speaking to Caryn about her coming to work in a dirt-smudged t-shirt which displayed an obscene slogan about the hetero patriarchy? When she replied no, not to her knowledge, I wondered aloud as to why that was. I gave her an out; I told her she need not answer my question as there seemed to be an unspoken acknowledgement amongst clinic staff that if Caryn were reminded about the dress code, or even questioned about her attire, she would raise a fuss about some kind of phobia (homo/trans/attention-seeking juvenile )…and until I saw equal treatment re the “professional attire” issue I will keep wearing my vibrant socks, thank you very much and don’t let the centrifuge hit you in the ass on your way to another employee attire review. [14]
And Phil Donahue: thanks for the memories, enlightenment, and entertainment.
* * *
Freethinkers’ Thought Of The Week [15]
“Do you know what they call alternative medicine that works?
Medicine.”
( Australian actor/musician/composer/comedian Tim Minchin )
* * *
May you never have a reason to steam your (or anyone else’s)…parts;
May you have entertaining memories sparked by the death of a celebrity;
May you not be such people in someone else’s memories;
…and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
* * *
[1] Yep, my curiosity got the better of me.
[2] That should tip you off. If something is legit you rarely need to call it alternative. See Freethinker’s quote at the end of this blog
[3] 5 ½ years in a private OB/GYN practice; four years in Planned Parenthood clinics.
[4] NIH National Library of Medicine
[5] I do realize Donahue often played the devil’s advocate – no pun intended in this case – when it came to asking questions of his guests, questions and critiques that he knew their critics would sling.
[6] Not her (or his) real name, which I have mercifully forgotten…although their presence is etched upon the folds of my cerebellum, for life.
[7] And the answer was most often a resounding, NOT.
[8] How and why she was hired was anyone’s guess (and I was far from being the only clinic aide who wondered). My guess was that Caryn was a diversity hire – having worked with her in clinic I can attest that it certainly wasn’t because of her experience and/or work ethic – as in, up until then, there were no openly LGBTQ women on that particular PP’s clinic staff.
[9] Which was her interpretation, when we all were really trying to convey, “And we’re supposed to care about this, because….? – just being rhetorical – PLEASE DON’T ANSWER.”
[10] And they didn’t – there was some brief identification along the lines of, “works in a health care clinic.”
[11] I’ve no idea about her family background-social class-financial status, but her casual attitude about work gave the impression that she didn’t have to worry about money.
[12] I encouraged him to bring his concerns to the clinic manager, but he told me that frankly/off the record he didn’t want to be accused of “discriminating” against her.
[13] This was the abortion clinic.
[14] Not verbatim. I was very fond of that person, but I made sure that she knew that I knew that there was a double standard going on.
[15] “free-think-er n. A person who forms opinions about religion on the basis of reason, independently of tradition, authority, or established belief. Freethinkers include atheists, agnostics and rationalists. No one can be a freethinker who demands conformity to a bible, creed, or messiah. To the freethinker, revelation and faith are invalid, and orthodoxy is no guarantee of truth.” Definition courtesy of the Freedom From Religion Foundation, ffrf.org
