Due to technical difficulties, this has been re-posted (RSS readers will be getting this twice).

Carine explores the pursuit of big business and the big O

Ladies!

Do you know that you are sick if you don’t have vaginal orgasms? If your libido is kind of low, you have an illness? If you are not instantly lubricated when your partner suggests lovemaking, you are diseased? And did you know that not climaxing when you engage in sexual activity means something is wrong with you?

Listen up. Your debilitating ailment has a name: Female Sexual Dysfunction, or FSD. Don’t you feel better knowing what’s wrong with you? Now you can go to reputable sites like Mayo Clinic or Web MD or AAPF (a peer-reviewed medical journal of the American Academy of Family Physicians) and read all about it. That’s the good news. The bad news is that, unfortunately, not even one of those smarty-pants scientists out there has been able to come up with the Holy Grail otherwise known as female Viagra. Ain’t life a bitch sometimes? Does God hate women or what?

I had never heard of the term FSD until I stumbled upon an eye-opening 2009 documentary called Orgasm Inc. It tracks filmmaker Liz Canner’s own stumble upon the pharmaceutical industry’s dogged pursuit of ways to make perfectly healthy women feel abnormal in order to sell them the medication that will make them “right” again. It follows that in order to sell a new prescription drug and new medical procedures, Big Pharma first had to come up with a problem, which needed curing. Hence the term FSD was born. And even though they continue to con women into trying new drugs, and an entirely new industry has sprung up around the issue (along with a veritable cornucopia of methods to sell the message—including trade shows, TV ads, self-help books and more) it turns out that (surprise!) there is nothing wrong with women. Data from multiple respected doctors and sources indicate that 50-60% of women don’t climax through vaginal intercourse, and that most women achieve orgasm only through clitoral stimulation. I guess there’s just no getting around that persistent urban legend that men and women are built differently!

It’s not like I never dreamed Big Pharma would go so far as to invent a disease in order to make money from women who are told every day in myriad ways that they are not perfect and MUST be perfect. It’s just that this excellent documentary exposes the full-of-shitness factor so handily that, warning! it may induce nausea; but in the process, it might remind you that no, you don’t need labiaplasty—plastic surgery for reducing the labia minora in otherwise fine women who are made to feel everyone is supposed to look identical (to those of you who really do need that surgery, by all means…). I once had a gynecologist who was big into labiaplasty tell me that she considered taking a booth at the LA Erotica trade show because, “We’re doing these ‘designer vaginas’ now…” I swear she used that phrasing, which is when I started looking for a new ObGyn; meanwhile, the term “designer vagina” has become the accepted and flirty way to describe the surgery during a sales pitch. Can somebody just shoot me now?

And you know how it’s become all the rage to wax off every last pubic hair you ever had in an effort to, I dunno, look like an 8-year-old? A porn star? Well, maybe you should ask yourself why your partner digs that look so much, or why you suddenly need to be bare, bare, bare! I suspect someone in the waxing industry got high one night, came up with the idea, and then figured out how to turn it into a trend. I recently saw a woman in her thirties wearing a cropped top with jeans riding so low on her hips that I wanted to say, “Okay, I get it! You have no pubic hair!” I found that in-your-face sexuality as vulgar as all the ass-cracks you see blaring out from guys’ super baggy jeans. Listen up, ladies and gentlemen, showing the entire world what’s just below your belt and in between your legs is too much information. Repeat after me: I am not sick. I am beautiful just the way I am. Now, excuse me, I have to go to Brazil to yell at them for inventing the Brazilian Wax, those snatch-hugging hip-hugger jeans with the world’s tiniest zippers, and for beating out Beverly Hills in the incidence of cosmetic surgery (mostly done to pad their booties not breasts!). Come on girls, how caliente can you get without going up in flames?

Can Carine gamble on insurance and not get burned?

Recent conversation with my vet:

Me: It’s been at least a year since I asked one of your people to fill out this “Release of Records” form and send it to my insurance company but they never did, so my last claim went unpaid.

(The insurance company needed two years’ worth of records to guard against any sneaky pre-existing conditions.)

Vet: Oh, no. We fill out all forms and fax them in immediately, but all our clients call back three and four times to complain that the insurance companies say they haven’t received it.

Me: So, I guess their thing is to wear us down in the hope that we will eventually abandon or forget the whole thing?

Vet: You know, insurance companies. (Shrug)

In case you’re still reeling over the news that I pay for something as elitist as pet insurance when there are people starving in America, all I can say is, well, yes, I pay for pet insurance. I’ve gone off the pet insurance crack pipe several times over the years, each time, succumbing to the guilt wrought upon me by the sarcastic and smirking voice, which tells me I’m a fool to fork over hard-earned dough to yet another insurance company when they always seem to find an excuse for denying my claims. The last time I got back on the pipe was a year-and-a-half ago when my cat developed a potentially fatal blocked bladder that ended up costing me $1800. That’s U.S. dollars, not Haitian Gourdes! I ran, not walked, to find me another pipe for fear of a recurrence (since the vet practically assured me this would happen). After a year of spending $100/month to cover both my animals, I sent in a claim for what should have been a piece-of-cake incident, which, nevertheless, cost me over $200. The result was the above-noted conversation with my vet. Do I stop inhaling again or keep hoping for miracles? Grrr

In addition to pet insurance, I also pay $100/month to Pre-paid Legal Service. You got it, insurance against potential future legal bills and access to attorney expertise whenever you need it. I wish I’d had it back in 1997 when my henna tattoo business was hit with a frivolous lawsuit; total outlay: $18,000. It was right after that really fun adventure that I hit the Pre-paid Legal crack pipe and continue to pay it to this day. This means that in 13 years I’ve spent $15,600, hoping to never again be involved in a lawsuit, but sleeping better knowing I’m covered should I should fall prey to Lady Unlucky. But, wait. Over the years, I’ve often walked away uncomfortable with the level of lawyer engagement provided. I was very satisfied with a 15-minute phone conversation, which clarified my rights as a person renting to a nightmare lodger. But more often, it’s been like, Oh, we can’t tell you how to write the terms of this contract, we can only make suggestions. If you would like us to write it for you, we would be happy to do that at 25 percent less than our normal hourly rate. And they’ll represent you in court, but only for a specified number of hours. After that, it’s 25 percent off the normal hourly rate… But isn’t the devil in the legalese? And don’t most disputes that end up in court necessitate months and months of time? I know, I know, I’m making my own case for ditching the service but I just can’t stop thinking about my old aunt who got fed up paying for homeowners insurance after 30 years and said fuck it! Her house burned down the week after she canceled her policy.

In the end, it’s not really addiction that keeps me sucking on that pipe; it’s plain old fear. And the problem with insurers is they’ve got all the insurance while we’ve got all the fear. They’re counting on it.

Updates
1) Today I had a very satisfying and informative conversation with a Pre-paid Legal attorney regarding contractual terms with an overseas corporation. See what I mean?!
2) For various reasons (like the ones mentioned in the piece), I’ve canceled my pet insurance—again. Yeeha!

Meet or retreat from Carine’s cast of characters in her toned down rant about “the change”

You don’t know how happy you are that I didn’t post the blog I originally wrote titled “I Hate F#*@!-ing Menopause”. I remembered just in time that I’m supposed to embrace this era of transformation, of aging with grace, etc., etc., blah, blah, blah. To be 100 percent honest, I don’t love growing old but I’ve made my peace with it. I’m even doing it au naturel—never tried Botox, stopped dyeing my hair, chucked my distaste for exercise. But, menopause? Yes, that’s me in the corner over there, waving the large white flag.

My original blog was full of anger and super dirty swear words. Aren’t you glad I reconsidered? Although, to tell you the truth, I had a great time ripping Madam Menopause to shreds. I thought I was really funny, but people who love me said to keep it to myself or forever suffer pangs of regret since the Internet is the elephant that never forgets. Or, they made careful suggestions about how to tweak it. So I shelved the report on my wide-eyed midnights spent wondering whom to yell at; and of my epiphanous threat to Mr. Flash: the intention to create a brand new antiperspirant for the ENTIRE body. HA! HA! HA! No more sweating EVER AGAIN!

I spared you the excruciating blow-by-blow of how, over the last two and a half months, my credit card balance grew a desperate $2,000 as I attempted to reach hormone balance the natural way. Of how my GP explained that the reason behind my persistent chest cold and cough lay at the feet of Mr. Stress, thanks to the nighttime, daytime, all-the-time, evil ministrations of the ever-diligent Mr. Flash. (I wonder if Stress is the same culprit behind the brand new head cold I woke up with just two days after getting rid of the last one?) I resisted the urge to bore you with the details of my distressing and infinite visits to Ms. Nutritionist, Mr. Acupuncture, Miss Blood Test and Master Genetics Test while throwing back the Multiple Mrs. Supplements at breakfast, lunch, dinner and bedtime. And I held back the anxious return of my depressed and sleep-deprived ass right back into the smirking arms of Ms. Bio-identical Hormone Replacement Therapy, cancer risks be damned.

I didn’t tell you about how one morning, after getting out of bed in my usual good mood, my husband lovingly suggested that he could take that wooden mallet he keeps by the side of the bed and give me a good whack on the head just to help me out on the sleeplessness front. (I have to say he made me laugh, and that was no small feat.)

I saved you from my bitch, bitch, bitching about Ms. Menopause Party Planner’s spurious bits of advice: discard all tops that can’t be easily and discreetly ripped off the burning-hot then cold and clammy body; and check this one out: no more than one alcoholic beverage per week! Talk about hitting below the belt.

You’ll be happy to learn that, in just one lucky week, I expect to stop barking at the moon and warning people that the only way they’ll get my bottle of vodka is to pry it from my cold dead hand. That’s how long it will take for Ms. Bio-identical to kick in. In the meantime, I take comfort in my mature and selfless decision to post this amazingly positive blog instead of the vile one I intended to submit!

Carine observes that some of life’s best lessons come from our four-footed friends

1. When you have an itch, scratch it. If something is nagging at you, insisting a certain person or circumstance just doesn’t feel right, go with it sooner than later. You’ll save yourself a lot of grief. Plus, your wallet may still be where you left it when you go to pay for your session with that shrink.

2. If you need to fart, just do it. If you are feeling bloated with the gaseous fumes of critical words that need to be said or important ideas which need to be expressed, let them out; you’ll feel a lot better. When you’re sick, do you try to repress your cough with syrup? Stop it! Cough up the mucus, baby. Blocking a bodily function has never been a good idea.

3. Show love with enthusiasm. If there is someone in your life who you just adore—be it a spouse, friend or special family member—show them you can’t live without them (you know, get all excited when they walk in the door, jump all over them, ask if you can sit on their lap, etc.). They’ll think you’re nuts but they’ll be thrilled, and you will have them eating out of your hand.

4. When you need to go for a walk, make sure somebody knows. If your needs are not being met and you’re not speaking up, wake up. Most human beings cannot read minds. In fact, they are very bad at it. So, say it loud! Otherwise you may just have to clean up that awful mess yourself.

5. If you confront a cat, expect to get scratched. Everyone knows about so-called “catty” people. No explanation needed.

6. When all else fails, bite ‘em. Sometimes being nice just won’t do. There are situations that call for aggressive action, like if someone is trying to stake claim to your brilliant idea, steal your money, or take away your rights. This is not the time to try a little kindness. Don’t attempt to show them the error of their ways; just bite their head off. If necessary, you can always offer to pay for the doctor’s bill.

7. Be open and shameless about wanting a treat. If you need to pamper yourself, and you can afford it, it doesn’t matter that there are starving children in America. You can always send a few dollars to your favorite charity if it makes you feel better. So go ahead, drink expensive champagne, buy a really good quality bra just because it gives your breasts that extra lift, or splurge on a weekend getaway with your favorite buddy because it’s exactly what you need to get out of your funk. Just make sure you look puppy cute when you tell your out-of-work friends.

8. If you want to run after squirrels, prepare to be outrun. If you are in your fifties but prefer significantly younger partners, they will eventually leave you for another equally energetic squirrel. If you go after them with full acknowledgement of this fact, you will enjoy the chase more, and when they do leave, you will resist the embarrassing and futile effort of leaping up repeatedly at the trunk of their tree.

9. Wag your tail to show you’re happy. I am talking about the fine art of flirting. Yes, even though I’ve been married a long time, I still remember how fun it is, and practice it whenever appropriate. You know how to do it, don’t you girls? Just put your two rear cheeks together and wiggle!

10. If you want to belong to someone, don’t worry if they put a collar around your neck. Just make sure it’s got diamonds in it!

Is Carine looking for love in all the wrong places? Or could angels be guiding the way?

A study I read revealed that patients who feel their doctors care about them tend to recuperate and heal faster than those who feel like they’ve just taken a quick hop on-and-off a conveyor belt. Trying to find love from your healthcare provider is an iffy and trying proposition; and I’m here to report on my recent routine annual physical examination with a general practitioner, courtesy of my brand new HMO plan. Did you say $40 co-payment for all office visits and lab tests? I was already in love (even though I resent not being able to go to my regular GP and gynecologist because they’re not in the damn network).

My visit with the doctor went like this: in the less than 15 minutes it took for me to fill out the requisite forms, I observed no less than three pharmaceutical salesladies trot in to dole out free samples to the doctor, who, in fact did offer me a drug for osteoporosis before deciding whether or not I even needed a bone density test. I think I’m pretty in the know about the reciprocal back-scratching that goes on in the medical field, but I must admit to being kind of shocked when one of the salesladies in question whipped out her appointment book and notepad to take lunch orders for how many people did you say are working in the office now?

But my doctor surprised me further. When I said I was on bio-identical hormones and felt the need to have my levels tested, she said, “What are bio-identical hormones? Do you need a prescription to get them?” Okay, maybe not everyone knows what bio-identicals are, but a doctor? Within the context of the many hormonal changes I am experiencing, I told her that my breasts were quite tender lately, and we discussed a prescription for a mammogram. So I was again surprised when during the two-minutes spent on her examining table, she asked if I wanted her to check my breasts. Um, yeah? And then I told her that I had lost quite a bit of weight and wanted to make sure everything was fine on that front—you know, let’s check thyroid, adrenals, potential parasites, etc. But that conversation devolved into how thin I am and how fat she is and how she can’t stop eating chocolate at night. We ended up talking about her weight issues for a long, long time. Am I wrong or is that a little strange?

On the flip side, the places she sent me to for my mammogram and bone density test were kind of funky but clean and homey, and lacking in that sub-freezing temperature modern (and expensive) facilities love so much. Gotta get your gentle bedside manner wherever you can when it comes to unaffordable healthcare in America. Or maybe I’m just looking for love in all the wrong places.

Just the other day, while standing in line for the restroom at a Venice Beach boardwalk cafe, I started chatting with a woman who, at the end of our brief but lovely exchange, surprised me by saying, “I hope you don’t think this is strange but I have a gift for you.”

“Really?” I said.

She smiled and reached into the inner breast pocket of her denim jacket and pulled out a simply beautiful pendant made of mother-of-pearl with a filigreed silver dragon. The reverse side is a bright green jade.

“I told a friend of mine this morning that whoever gives me the warmest smile today is going to get this gift,” she said by way of explanation. And then she walked into the restroom, leaving me there, stunned, delighted and uplifted.

A friend of mine who has done a lot of research on dragons tells me that they represent transformation. Hormonal changes…transformation…delight… Sometimes the love and healing we hope to get from our doctors come from the kindness of an unexpected angel.

Wrapping up the holiday theme—sharing what bring us joy—Carine tells a story of illumination

Sometimes joy simply comes from watching others experience joy. Someone I know sent me a link to a short article about the Sun City Picture House, a movie theater that was recently opened in one of Haiti’s worst slums, thanks to the efforts of actresses Olivia Wile and Maria Bello. The article quotes Bello saying, “We had 200 kids that [opening] night with little bags of popcorn and juice. Their parents stood in the back, watching them have some joy for the first time.”

When the task at hand seems overwhelming, doing the bit that you can, can have a huge impact. The thought of distressed Haitian people being able to watch a fun movie made me so happy. Good job, ladies!

With her own type of “smell-o-vision”, Carine’s nose triggers lessons to be learned

I recently had an epiphany. It goes like this:

If you smell shit everywhere you go, you’re the one who smells like shit.

Sound harsh? It is the conclusion I came to after walking around for a few hours the other day, saying to my husband, “Something smells like shit in the house.” I checked the cat’s litter box, even though I had just cleaned it out. I looked all over to see if the dog had had an accident but found nothing. I opened the trashcan, hoping to find something rotten and offensive but came up empty. I then left to run an errand, and while I was in the car, thought I caught a whiff of something shitty but it went away, so I thought I imagined it. But the minute I got home, there it was again. My husband’s nasal passages are a lot like his hearing—they either work selectively or not much; I’m usually the one who smells potential gas leaks and such, so he was no help.

Later that evening, we went out to the hot tub in our backyard, and I smelled it again, so I looked around for dog poop but couldn’t find any. It was finally when I went into the bathroom to put on a robe after our soak that I noticed a brown stain on the rug. My genius side kicked in and I turned my shoe over to find a huge, caked up mess of dog shit that I must have stepped in the last time I wore those shoes, and somehow never noticed it. So much for my extra-sensory nasal passages, I thought to myself. And that’s when I had my second epiphany:

When you smell like shit, without meaning to, you spread it wherever you go.

Since it was late in the night, I left the smelly shoe outside and the next day, donned rubber gloves and attacked my shoe with a hard scrub brush. I scrubbed and scoured like a maniac, using scalding water and soap until the sole of my shoe became like new with nary a remnant of the poop that had ingrained itself into the rubber grooves. That’s when I had my third epiphany:

When you’ve smelled like shit for a long time, it’s really hard to get it off.

I deposited the shoe upside down on the back porch to dry in the sun and left it there for a couple of hours. When later in the day I retrieved the other shoe and put them both on, I had my fourth epiphany:

Even after you wash the shit off, the smell may linger still.

I know you already get the larger message I’m getting at here. The conclusion I came to is that it was a message about negativity. Not that I’ve been feeling particularly negative about things. The message may apply to any toxic feelings you may be having about yourself or your life. But what I heard was negativity, so I am paying heed to the message and thought I’d pass it along. In the meantime, my shoe is back out on the porch with its sole to the sun, waiting for time to do its thing.