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Tuesday, June 24, 2008
These Are a Few of My Favorite Things
In the last few weeks I have found two new things that have already made my summer better, and I look forward to making use of both as I bask in my favorite time of year. They are unrelated, but both make my heart smile and my mouth jabber on about them. The first is workout skirts. These fantastic little spandex skorts allow me to feel the breeze on my legs without subjecting myself, and those around me, to the horrors of bike shorts or the gaping indiscretion that loose-legged shorts provide -- no one likes to share too much during sit-ups at the gym. For the last few years I have been wearing capri pants to the gym and rolling them up as I begin to overheat. Not exactly a Vogue moment. Workout skirts keep me cool and "cool." A friend of mine even wore hers out dancing the other night. It was a hit. I am inspired to pull a Smurfette and buy seventeen of them so I can have a closet full at the ready. I look forward to reliving my favorite trick of second grade: "Oh! You thought I was wearing a skirt? Ha! You are wrong! I sure fooled you!"
While wearing my skorts, I will be sipping my new favorite drink. Recently, I mocked a bartender and learned something very exciting as a result. He was cutting a big bunch of fresh basil, and I asked him if he had condescended to help the kitchen staff. "No," he said, "I make a drink with this." My interest was piqued, and he went on to explain, and then serve to me, a basil infused sparkling lemonade. Just like I crinkled my nose at the thought of my first cucumber water, I was a little suspicious of the tall, beautifully basil-garnished, glass he handed me. Wow! In a matter of seconds, basil became my new favorite drink additive. I have been obsessing about cool basil drinks ever since. The subtle flavor is so refreshing and surprising, and as someone who has always longed to eat basil by the bushel, I am happy to have found a new use for my favorite herb.
After talking to the bartender and sleuthing Al Gore's Fantabulous InterWeb, I concocted a version of my own. Just for fun, I have included the recipe below.
Happy Summer!
Basil Vodka Lemonade
(This is great in a pitcher or punch bowl so a large number of guests can serve themselves.)
1 part basil lemon zest simple sugar (explained below)
1 part vodka
1 part triple sec
1 part fresh lemon juice
2 bunches fresh basil
sparkling lemonade or water (to taste)
Make simple sugar:
Boil one part water and one part sugar with the zest of 2-3 lemons and a bunch of basil. Heat until sugar is fully dissolved. Allow to cool fully, and then strain out all of the solids.
Infuse the vodka:
Place half a bunch of basil in the bottom of your serving bowl or pitcher. Cover with vodka, and allow to sit for an hour or two.
Make the lemonade:
Combine the above listed ingredients in serving vessel. Add ice (for an extra kick pre-make lemonade ice so as it melts the drink's flavor is not diluted). Garnish the drink with fresh lemon slices and basil sprigs.
Enjoy!
Labels: fitness, recipe, review
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Buzz Kill
I love vibrators. I love the continual, rolling orgasms they produce. I love the pretty colors and bright packaging. I love the novelty of the industry and how new people and new products are constantly making it over for the better. I love the taboo, and I love the empowerment. I own vibrators, have given them as gifts and recommended my favorites to friends and strangers, but I am going to take a break.
I am going to take a break not out of some sort of masochistic withholding self-torture, but precisely because I want to experience more pleasure, more fully.
A few weeks ago, I took a class part of which focused on increasing sexual pleasure. I was told that the intense vibrations of vibrators could diminish clitoral sensitivity. Upon further research I learned that Steve and Vera Bodansky supported this theory in their book, Extended Massive Orgasm. While I wanted to scoff at this notion and continue my fun with Mr. Rabbit and other phthalate-free favorites, I was forced to concede that there might be some validity to this claim.
Back in the summer of ’06, my own personal summer of love, I, unwittingly, gathered evidence to prove this very point. My husband was traveling a good deal, and I decided, in his absence, to work on getting comfortable with my expanding sex toy collection.
As a child, I had masturbated regularly. I was very secretive about it. I even had code names and special locations and all sorts of stuff. I was an undercover masturbating super spy. As a young adult I swore off masturbation in favor of “hysteria” and serial monogamous encounters at not so regular intervals.
By 2006, three years into my marriage, I was still uncomfortable with masturbation generally and vibrators specifically, but I decided it was time to get over it. I went on a two-week long sexploration of myself. Wow. Such a highflying adventure was long overdue, and I reaped the benefits. I basked in the freedom of trying new things and exploring different motor speeds. I learned more about my genitalia that summer than I think I had since I first discovered it.
I giddily shared my electronic exploits with my traveling husband via all electronic media available: Skype, email, my (holy crap how much does it cost per minute?) phone. I think it was fun for both of us, and I eagerly anticipated his return so I could share my newfound obsession with him.
His homecoming was not as happy as I had imagined. After gleefully showing him some of what I had described to him in his absence, I was excited to have sex with a human again, specifically my husband.
While I had not embraced masturbation previously, I had been quite easily and readily satisfied by intercourse. I was looking forward to that satisfaction that I had had at the ready all my sexual life; it was painfully slow in coming (so to speak). Suddenly my body felt rather foreign. The easy wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am on which I had come to rely was out of my grasp. I am not saying I didn’t enjoy the ride, but suddenly the process of getting off, was much longer than it had ever been. I began to fear that the pink bunny had ruined me forever. Out damn pearl encrusted oscillating shaft, out!
It took a while, but ultimately I got my mojo back. Yeah, baby. At the time, I made a connection between the increase in my vibrating, plastic orgasms and the decrease in those more “manmade,” but, as sensation began to return to normal, I began to forget that I’d ever seen such a connection.
When I heard it proposed as a theory in my class, memories of 2006 came flooding back to me. Duh! Of course so much vibration can decrease sensitivity. Of course touching your body with a machine rather than actual flesh of some kind can diminish intimacy. I get it.
All of that said, there is no way in hell I am getting rid of my vibrators. The thing about vibrators is they are more that just merchandised orgasms. The fact that someone is making them – lots of someones are making them – means that someone – lots of someones – are frequently thinking about vaginas and how to make them happy. I am glad about that. I am glad that I am seeing “personal massagers” at Target and Walgreen’s. I am thrilled that Fred Segal is selling the OhMiBod.
The vibrator's rise in popularity represents an increased focus on sex as a positive, life-affirming activity. My love of vibrators is more than just physical pleasure; it is a political and social statement. I love sex, but I would choose my husband over a vibrator any day. I want to do everything in my power to make my sex life as fantastic as possible. This means I will practice as often as possible. I will take classes and read books and work on increasing the sensitivity of my clitoris. It also means that, every once in a while, when the mood strikes me, I might get a little buzzed.
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
New Beach
Ok. I admit it. My head is still in Greece. My thoughts are swirling around with memories of my recent trip. My husband and I started our trip in Athens and then went on to Santorini and Crete. We absolutely fell in love with Santorini, so when we arrived in Crete, after five nights in the perfectly charming Santorini, we were both a little disheartened to find such a sprawling, filthy city. It didn’t help that we had spent the night prior to our arrival on the floor of a dingy ferry trying to sleep with backpack pillows and American infomercials blaring on the television.
After a quick, and mandatory, visit to the Palace of King Minos at Knossos, we had both had our share of Crete’s beaten track, and zoomed away as fast as our “micro” rental car could take us. We headed south, through picturesque vineyards and herds of goats, into the mountains. Our goal was the southern coast of Crete where we’d read there were some beautiful and unspoiled beaches. We would have to find something pretty spectacular to top our Santorini experience.
I was finally able to get over my concern that I had ruined my husband’s vacation and taken him to a hideous lump of dirt in the middle of the ocean when we reached the beach at Agios Pavlos. Agios Pavlos is little more than a couple of hotels and a taverna or two, but I think it is technically a town. It is home to one of the most beautiful beaches I have ever encountered. Our last few days in Santorini had been a little chilly, and we had not yet gotten to have the stereotypical beach day we both envisioned would be a part of our Grecian holiday.
On a bright, sunny day in Agios Pavlos, we packed up our beach goodies and headed down to the sand. We had carefully scouted the perfect spot from the cliffs that rose above the crystal blue water. We staked our camp near the mouth of a cave that we had seen a family inhabiting the day before. We spread out our things, and I settled in to write postcards while The Mr. set off to explore the numerous caves and rock formations that surrounded us. We were both completely content. Not more than ten minutes passed when I heard my husband approach; those caves must have been smaller than I’d thought.
“We have to move! Right now!”
“Why?”
“The next beach over is even more beautiful than this, and the one after that is a nude beach!”
“A nude beach? Really? How do you know it is a nude beach?”
“There is a couple there, and they are nude.”
After some discussion, we decided it might be best to start our own “nude beach” at the next beach over, rather than disturb the couple on the preexisting “nude beach.” Quickly we made our move. Before I could talk myself out of it, I stripped off my bikini and my husband, a bit shocked I think, followed suit with his trunks. I was amused by the cool breeze caressing my bottom and felt giddy with the thought of my public exposure, despite the lack of a public.
A few moments later, a public arrived. It consisted of two adult-type people and what was, presumably, their offspring – a boy of about eight or ten. We froze like deer – bums up, eyes open. Our whispered discussion of what the hell we should do next concluded with a stealthy donning of our swimsuits and a move to the real “nude beach.”
The beaches at Agios Pavlos are separated by rock formations. When we made it around the rocks to the next small bay, I was shocked to see the nude couple right there. I had imagined them some distance away from us. We walked briskly by them with a courtesy sand gaze. We found a spot as far away from them as possible, yet still on the beach. It was decidedly more difficult to remove our clothes the second time around; being “caught” the first time had made us a little more anxious.
Ultimately, we were able to get comfortable. I even managed to smear sunscreen on my hubby’s bum (the one spot, we would later learn, that I had missed on my own body back in our hotel room). As the day progressed, we basked in the warm spring air and even splashed in the cool, blue water.
The original couple did us the same courtesy that we did them and basically ignored us. Eventually, they left. Their departure, however, did not mark the end of the nude beach. One by one and two by two, other people arrived throughout the day. Each would look around, see that this was the “nude beach,” and comply with our dress code.
I didn’t talk to anyone but my husband the whole day. By late afternoon, there were a dozen or so people on the beach, and none of the small groups intermingled. I have spent the last few weeks relishing in the thought that we “created” a nude beach in Crete. I was delighted to think that everyone wanted to be naked, and all they needed was the motivation of other bare bottoms. A brief Google search just proved me wrong – at least a little bit. According to several websites, while Agios Pavlos is not officially a nude beach, it has a naked reputation. So much for American ingenuity.
Despite the fact that we did not invent it, I would still like to take some credit for the nude beach at Agios Pavlos. Perhaps if we had remained suited, others would have taken our lead just as we took the lead of the first couple we encountered. By baring all, we set the tone for other beachgoers that day. Perhaps they’d read about it before. Perhaps they hadn’t. We helped create the nude beach for those fleeting hours while my bum baked in the sun and my head rested in the fine sand, and I am ever so happy about it.
Labels: body image, travel
Monday, June 2, 2008
Sucky Advice
It is not everyday that I get new birth control advice. It is rarer still when that advice comes from my mother. To my mother’s credit, she has always tried to maintain a dialogue with me about sex. When I was in sixth grade and walked into the kitchen wearing my brand new piña colada lip gloss my mom shocked the pants off of me by informing me that I looked like I’d just given someone a blow job. Moooooom!!! When I was fifteen, and she began to suspect that I had presented my virginity to my skateboarding boyfriend, she asked me if we ought to install mirrors on my ceiling. Again with the, “Mooooom!!!!”
While each “sex talk” my mom and I had left the adolescent me red-faced and mortified, I am thankful that my mother continued talking. My mom wanted me to have a different experience than she had had growing up. She explained how my grandmother’s knuckles grew white and her face stern when she attempted to pass along vague knowledge of the carnal to my mother. I can’t imagine what it might have been like to grow up in a home where I was deprived of information, even though I often felt my mother was giving me too much of it (“TMI, Mooooom!”).
Today I had a chat with my mother. We talked about the Bar Mitzvah of my first cousin once removed. We talked about movies and plane rides and my friends from high school. And then, when I wasn’t expecting it, my mom shared the birth control secret that is, if true, the dream of every man.
My mom explained to me that, in homeopathic medicine, ailments are treated by minute doses of substances that normally produce like ailments in a healthy person. For example, belladonna, which can cause dry throats and flushing (not to mention death), is prescribed by homeopaths, in a very dilute form, to treat those same symptoms (except for the death-thingy… I don’t think they have that one worked out yet). Using this theory, my mom went on to explain how a colleague of hers saw a connection between swallowing semen and decreased female fertility. This colleague (he was, of course male) suggested that the diluted seaman that made its way through a woman’s digestive system fought off the cute little spermies trying to fertilize her eggs. Ha!
Can you imagine? “Honey, I have the answer! Throw away your pills today! No shots either, at least not in the arm. I have a magical elixir, and all you have to do is swallow it, and you won’t get pregnant. Don’t worry, it’s natural. I brew it myself. I have been saving some up, just for you. We’ll save loads of money on condoms!”
As my mother and I giggled about the soundness of such advice and the male who might have thought it up, visions of piña colada lip gloss danced through my head. Over the years my mom has suggested many a remedy, each taken (and given) with a grain of salt. My husband has often balked at her suggestions. I think this is the first time ever that he might be sad that I don’t believe in homeopathy. I am not quite ready to swallow this one.
Labels: rant
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