Things That Go Buzz Between Yer Legs: My Personal Review Of The Ladygasm Cici

I rarely, if ever, agree to do product reviews here on my big girl blog.

I just don't.

I have been asked to review some weird shit. Some normal shit. And so much shit I just don't care about. I don't care that it's free and I get to keep it. I really do have better things to do than eat, smell, wash, wear, listen to, or play your product. Yes, I'm that asshole.

Unless it's a vibrator.

Send that one. I'll take it. I'll review it right after my post about zuchini, because squash and fake penii are related, dontcha know. 

DUH.

That's how I ended up receiving a little velvet box (bwahaha) from the cool peeps at Ladygasm that contained a tiny treasure for my Lady Garden. 

It takes 2 AAA batteries in the screw-off base, which I provided. Cuz I am a Girl Scout, like that. (Really, I was a Campfire Girl, but whatever, I had the batteries.) And then I gave the new toy a good scrub down because for some reason it smelled like a swimming pool. Which is lovely if you want to swim in your Lady Garden, but I like to keep my swimming and buzzing separate. Call me old-fashioned.
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After taking it for a test drive, here's what I can tell you about the Ladygasm Cici (they call her the most affordable luxury vibrator, folks, like a Lexus for your twat—okay maybe I came up with that last part of the tagline):

  • It has two buttons on the handle area, one for power, and one to control the multiple vibration modes, which I determined to be a variety of pulsing and vibrating of either the g-spot stimulator and/or the little clitoral stimulator—allowing you to have the vibrator operate as a g-spot only, clitoral stimulator only, or dual g-spot/clitoral stimulating vibrator. 
  • The clitoral stimulator has nubs that reminded me of a toothbrush. More scrubby than rubby, if that makes sense. They aren't stiff, but they aren't rounded, either. Very Vagina Dentata, IYKWIM.
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  • The power was okay, but not super strong. If you're looking to rearrange the furniture, this isn't the vibrator for you. On the other hand, if you want something quiet that will get the job done, then the Ladygasm Cici might be your new best friend.
  • It didn't come with any instructions, which is fine, I mean it's not a super complicated product, but something telling you how many settings it has or even the product name would have been cool. Also, a free set of batteries would have been a nice touch. Thankfully, I had a big batch of new ones on hand.
  • I did like the fact that the two parts had their own independent motors vibrating separately, although more speed variability would be nice. What can I say, I like my sports cars and my vibrators to have manual transmissions with a lot of gears.
  • It's latex-free and hypoallergenic. The top half, you know, the fake penis part, is made of medical-grade silicone. Not to be confused with silicon. Totally different stuff, folks.
  • At just $25, it's a pretty reasonably priced vibrator. I know I've spent far more for less satisfying experiences. 
  • It was also easy to clean and the little "legs" on the base makeit easy to stand up to let it dry.
  • I wasn't able to find info on whether or not it's waterproof, which is something I like to know, generally as even if you don't plan on doing any underwater sports with your toys, sex can be a "moist" adventure, so my preference is for toys to be waterproof.
  • Having used it a couple of times now, and washed it the same number of times, it still smells like a swimming pool. Ew. I can't figure it out. Something about the plastic. Super weird.
  • I do like that it's bendy. Not floppy, mind you. It doesn't need to pop a blue pill or anything. It's just got a nice flex to it. And since we aren't all shaped the same, this is a nice touch.
Now, the fine print: the folks at Ladygasm were nice enough to offer the readers here a 20% discount off their normal website prices. Just enter CALIFMOM and shop away.  


 

Widows Make Better Lovers: Living In The Moment

Mama's First LouboutinsImage by califmom via Flickr

A group of young widow friends and I were chatting on Twitter last night about widows making better lovers because we live in the moment due to our experiences. The group of us agreed that having watched our loved ones pass suddenly or, in my case, not too suddenly, but at such a young age, makes you appreciate life and love in a different way—with abandon, even.

All I know about myself is that I no longer put off the joyful experiences for another day. I eat the foods I crave. I travel to the places I want to see. I meet the people I want to meet. I drink wine in the bathtub, when the mood strikes. I dance like EVERYBODY is watching, because I love it. I'll ask for what I want, but I don't like repeating myself. And I share my life with people who are smart, funny, interesting, healthy, functional, people. Things that don't fit that mold, don't fit in my life. It's too potentially short of a ride to live it any other way.

Does that mean I don't look toward the future? No. I do. Does it mean I'm not reflective? No. I am. I just don't live in those places.

In practicality, in means that I will almost always accept an invitation to spend time with someone over doing laundry. Okay, I will ALWAYS accept that invitation. Let's be honest.

Um, better example: the good bottle of wine isn't saved for special occasions, it's for now. Other things that shouldn't be saved for special occasions: blow jobs, high heels, sexy underwear that matches your bra, pedicures, bubble baths, sunsets, eating breakfast in bed, sleeping naked, naps, morning sex, midday sex, all-day sex, driving down the coast in a convertible, sushi, kissing your lover on the neck from behind for no reason, watching dumb movies just because they're dumb, kissing in the rain, making-out like you did when you were in high school...for so long you think you just can't take it any longer, but you feel like you might melt at the same time, kissing her hip, her ankle, his wrist, holding hands while you drive.

Those things. Don't save those. You might not get to do them tomorrow.

 

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Hot Or Not: Also, I'm Gonna Talk About My Sex Life

"Advice for Strays"Image by califmom via Flickr

I never had to think about whether or not I was sexy to anybody but my husband for at least two decades. It didn't occur to me to care.

He'd tell me I looked hot. I'd roll me eyes or laugh it off or say thank you, depending on my mood. He'd ask if it sucked to be so sexy all the time, and I'd think he was joking, trying to get some. You know, husbands.

We had a healthy sex life, I think. Ups and downs over the years, but never a dry spell that a single person would endure. I've since tried to explain that to my single friends. In the world of married people, a couple weeks is an eternity. Sorry if that's TMI for some of you, but I'm sure the married folks in the audience will relate. At least, the happily and healthily married.

As Bob got sick, we were still fortunate that things remained normal until almost the very end. Damn lucky for both of us.

At the funeral, his closest friends, the frat brothers (keepin' it klassy, as they do), made a mention of me dating. It was the furthest thing from my mind at that time. As time passed, I considered it, but only to think that I'd most likely be dating people my age or older, right?

The thing is, I wasn't really ready to go out looking for people to date. Instead, as luck would have it, because of my very visible life, people found me. And they weren't my age. They weren't older. They weren't homely or even passable. They were kind of hot. They were smart. They were interesting.

So, I started to wonder, was my husband really telling me the truth? It's not that I never saw myself as sexy or interesting or smart. I just never saw myself as that person for anybody but him.

It's been a strange journey reframing my vision of myself as this person independent of another. I like her, this whole, sexy, smart, fully-formed me. She's kinda awesome.

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Diagnosis: Numb Butt

Hold please for a trip down TMI lane.

My crotch is numb. My bladder and “stuff” aren’t communicating with brain like they should. My girlie bits are losing feeling. My butt actually hurts. So does my lower back, especially when I bend over for any length of time. (No, I’m not having the buttseks. I wouldn’t be able to feel it, anyway, but Bob has promised he’s not been sneaking anything in the back door. )

When you’re a tall chick, you have to bend over to do just about everything…load the dishwasher, do laundry, pick up the various items that your family leaves strewn about the house, put on your shoes. You get the idea.

A lot of bending.

For my entire life, I’ve been an incredibly flexible person. Physically flexible. Like a noodle. Gumby, they used to call me.

Now, I can barely touch my toes. Some days, I actually can’t.

Enter the MRI. Enter me into the MRI machine.

Have you ever had an MRI? Not the place for people who have panic attacks. AT ALL. Holy shit. Tiny tube. Jackhammer sounds. And you're inside a magnet. And you're thinking, "Hey maybe they left a staple inside me after that one surgery. How the fuck do I know? Wait. I can totally feel it moving. OMG. It's being sucked out of me. It's going to be ripped out of my abdomen. I wonder how many people that's happened to. Can they tell if my guts burst open while I'm in here?" But then, I just thought, this is going to make the best blog post ever. Especially if my guts burst open. But my guts didn't burst open. Turns out I didn't have anything metal inside me. Sorry. I tried, guys. I guess I didn’t want it badly enough. Or my heart wasn’t pure.

What I do have inside me is some mild arthritis (who doesn’t), a bone spur, and the probable source of my inability to bend over or sit/walk/stand for any length of time, a Tarlov cyst (a type of spinal arachnoid cyst). The cyst wasn’t what my doctor initially focused on (she went with the arthritis), but after reading about the dermatomes associated with the location of the arthritis and the dermatomes associated with the location of the cyst, plus the symptoms associated with Tarlov cysts, the arthritis just doesn’t fit.

Fortunately, I had a doctor who either listens to me and likes me, or just wants me to stop emailing her shit, so she’s referred me to the spine clinic and physical therapy.

Until then, I’m living a horizontal life or faking an upright life, than paying for it later. Damn butt.

P.S. I’ll be ranting about the lack of research in spinal cord injuries and their effects on sexual dysfunction in women in another post. Or maybe I’ll spare you all and just rant about it to the people who have to live with me in real life. Suffice it to say, there’s a pathetic lack of data out there. Men can’t pop a boner and the world stops spinning, but women? Yeah, someone did a study in 2007 on women’s orgasms and the relation to nerve damage and it was considered cutting-edge. 2007!!!! The first study of its kind!!!! No wonder we’re fucking cranky.

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Are you there Califmom? It's me, Cleveland

One of the awesome things about having a blog is the blog stats. Oh, yeah. Blog stats are the little window into the minds of the people who drop by here to read the crazy shit I write. Most of y’all are average folk, reading my mind-dumps, looking for a laugh, keeping up with the crazy happenings at chez Califmom, or hunting for information on special needs kids or homeschooling. Howdy!

Occasionally, I get folks who find my blog searching for gems like “can I sell a used toilet?” (I don't want to know why you need to know this, dear reader, nor do I want to know why you'd want to know this.) or “Does Dave Matthews have Asperger’s?” (I don't know, you'd have to ask Dave Matthews.)

Other blog stats show me what readers search for once they arrive on my site.

Over the weekend, I had a reader from Cleveland who was hell bent on finding info on my site about vaginas and lesbians. This reader searched high and low. I’m not sure if this poor reader found the info he or she was looking to find, and this worries me.

Since this reader has come back again today, I'm going to do my best to provide some helpful links.

I haven’t spent a lot of time addressing gender identity here on my blog, and only minimal time on the love pita. I’ve posted an educational link to a video about the care and feeding of your vagina by the notorious Midwest Teen Sex Show. It’s a most awesome video. If you have a vagina, care for a vagina, or hope to one day care for a vagina, do take the time to watch the video. Maybe not at work, unless you have headphones, or a boss with a vagina who is particularly cool about her vagina.

And I’ve linked to one of my favorite songs about the vagina, My Vagina is 8 Miles Wide, by Storm Large. Again, best listened to loud, with other vagina connoisseurs. At minimum, you should have a cursory understanding of the word metaphor. If you don’t, click here.


But, I worry that maybe this reader was looking for more than I’ve covered here at Califmom. Maybe this reader was looking for advice. So, once again, I direct you, fair readers, to an expert. Jenny, The Bloggess, writes a wonderful column over at SexIs, and will answer your questions about anything sex-related. (She handles such sensitive issues as clown porn, tips for virgins, and unicorn sex.)

And, if you’re just looking for that vibrating bunny they gave away at BlogHer, you can order one for yourself. They aren’t that expensive. I have no idea how well they work, ‘cuz I actually gave mine away before I even left the lobby of the Sheraton. (Shh…don’t tell. You’ll totally ruin my reputation as a blogger who lets her children play with vibrators. I’m not that generous with my kids. Mama’s sex toys are not for children. Ain’t no freebies in my toy box. Knowing my kids, they’d have that shit strapped to the dog’s back, using it power his furry little butt around the pool, and that mutt can already swim.)

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