When Thrift Goes WRONG….
At the beginning of our thrifty journey, we managed to make considerable savings by cutting out non- essentials such as cappuccinos. Easy peasy. I barely miss them and now cannot believe how much money I used to waste in this way! £300 a year for frothy coffee. I know, I’m ashamed.
I have also had to start looking at ways to reduce the cost of things that are essential. I’ve been bulk buying and stockpiling items such as shampoo, toothpaste, loo rolls, dishwasher tablets and washing powder. Our garage looks like a branch of Costco.
However, my attempts to save money have not always ended happily. Dear blog readers, I am going to share the terrible consequences of what can happen when thrift goes wrong. Please do not read any further if you are of a nervous disposition for my story concerns – Aunty Flow.
Did you know that the average woman gets through about 11,000 tampons in her lifetime, to the tune of about £1000. Since the Tax MAN – (it has to be a man!) thinks that these are non-essential luxury items, we also pay VAT on them. Incidentally exotic meats such as horse, crocodile, ostrich or kangaroo are exempt. (If you think this is a bit of a bloody cheek – you can sign a petition here: http://www.change.org/p/george-osborne-stop-taxing-periods-period).
So when I heard about something called a Mooncup I thought I’d give it a go. It promises to offer an end to the waste, discomfort and expense of disposable sanitary protection. Off to Boots I ventured to begin my new life as a thrifty eco diva.
The Mooncup comes in two sizes. Size A, for youthful nymphs under 30 and size B, for those of us who erm…..aren’t.
It looks like a harmless little egg -cup and is fashioned from silicone. It is supposed to sit happily up your fanjo, protecting your borders from the Communist invasion.
To insert, you simply roll it up, smuggle it past the border, allow it to expand, and then turn it clockwise until a certain degree of suction is created. Except it is made from bendy slippy silicone and, I’m sure they can’t have overlooked the simple fact that during the week in which it is needed, one’s ‘’hoo- hah” is quite liberally lubricated with B negative.
My first time wasn’t a happy experience. However, after a mere two hours of chasing the escapey bouncy slippy thing around the bathroom, I was finally happy with the fit and confident that it would not leak like a rusty pipe.
I ventured out to Aldi to do the shopping.
It was great. There was no leakage. It felt comfortable. Snug even. I allowed myself a little skip through the feminine hygiene section. I nodded smugly and smiled at a lady buying tampons. All was progressing extremely well until I realised with horror that I was about to give birth to it.
Now, those of you who shop in Aldi will know that they don’t have toilets. I abandoned my trolley and shuffled off with my knees together. The nearest public toilet was located a short walk away in a nearby Tesco. Well, it’s a short walk if you are not in the second stage of labour and experiencing a considerable urge to push.
I found myself a cubicle and set about sorting myself out. My undergarments resembled a Quentin Tarantino set. I clasped the Mooncup and attempted to extract it. Only it felt like I was giving myself a do-it-yourself hysterectomy. Somehow the thing had twisted sideways and was stuck. There was only one thing for it. I gritted my teeth and pulled really really hard. Success! Out it plopped. But the thing was so slippery and bendy that I’m afraid I lost control. It bounced along the cubicle floor spraying it’s contents up the door and across the floor, and it disappeared into the next door cubicle. Which happened to be occupied.
I sat and calmly considered my options. I looked like I had slaughtered a chicken with my bare hands and the soap and water were located outside the cubicle. My only form of sanitary protection was also outside the cubicle. There was only one thing for it. I knelt down, slipped my bloodied hand under the cubicle wall and retrieved the Mooncup from the floor – remembering to say “SORRY” as I did so. I felt that this was polite and would therefore reassure the lady and make her less fearful. “That’s okay” replied a bemused voice.
I shuffled to the sink, and like Lady Macbeth removed the evidence from my hands. I gave the Mooncup a nonchalant little rinse and returned to the cubicle to pop it in again.
I have never used it again.
In summary, clearly, not all thrifty decisions are good ones. However I’m loathed to throw this Mooncup in the bin after spending so much money on it. Do you think I could sell it on Ebay? It’s only been used once…..