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Title : I Brought Receipts on the Diva Cup (Not for the Squeamish or My Dad)
link : I Brought Receipts on the Diva Cup (Not for the Squeamish or My Dad)

I Brought Receipts on the Diva Cup (Not for the Squeamish or My Dad)

Did you see that parenthetical in the title? Dad? I'm talking to you. Stop reading this now. If you call me in three days and tell me how vulgar and disgusting this blog post is and ask me yet again how it is that I can function in the world as a respectable professional and still write about this stuff, I'll have to say I warned you. 

This disclaimer also goes for everyone who's not my Dad who does not want to read a product review--a graphic product review--of the Diva Cup. If you don't know what the Diva Cup is, I suggest you Google it before venturing further into this post.  

Okay, that said, let us begin.

I was in the bathroom at work today, when I saw a colleague vigorously washing her hands. "Can you please do a blog post about the Diva Cup?" she sighed. Boy could I ever. "BOY CAN I EVER!," I said with enthusiasm. "I'll do it tonight. Stay tuned."

When I first tried the Diva Cup, it was called "The Keeper," and a friend of mine who also got periods raved to me about how amazing it was.

 "IT WILL CHANGE YOUR LIFE," she promised. 

Now before I go any further, let me just say I know the Diva Cup and its progenitors have their strict adherents. These devices are like licorice, cilantro, or the Grateful Dead. Women love them or they hate them, and no matter what camp you're in, you can't believe anyone would be in the other. 

There's also a hint of sanctimony to the Diva Cup camp, because you get to brag to everyone about how nice you are to the planet and how 12 months of YOUR used tampons aren't going to end up in the Whitechapel Fatberg in the London sewer.

But whatevs. 

This is my verdict on the Diva Cup: the margin of error is SLIM. 

When I first saw the different options and sizes, I became concerned. Under 30? Before childbirth? After childbirth? Wait. What would happen to my junk? (this was before I had kids). Will it ever be the same again? And if it's not, how will I know? Will someone tell me? Good God this isn't a source of additional insecurity I need in my life.

Having deduced the proper size of Diva Cup (or Keeper, as it was called circa 2005 when last I tried it), I enthusiastically opened the package and my first thought was that it looked like a 1970s diaphragm that Tinkerbell would use if she was trying to keep Peter Pan from being her baby daddy.

But no matter, I was willing to give it a shot. I greeted Day 1 of my next period with an enthusiasm I hadn't experienced since my "Are You There God, It's Me, Margaret" days. I folded it up and shoved it on in there. I immediately knew this was going to require a level of intimacy with blood and gore I wasn't ready to accept.

And I was right. 

While the Diva cup SOMETIMES did the job, other times--meaning the 99.9% of the time you didn't get a PERFECT fit of this object into your vajazzle canal—you were playing with fire. And by fire I mean blood. And by blood I mean a LOT of blood. I'm talking some Sissy Spacek in Carrie type shit.

Like this is literally how I looked when the Diva Cup did not work as planned: 



Needless to say, it wasn't worth it. Bottom line: DO NOT RECOMMEND.

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