nobody reads friday posts, so let's talk about my vagina.

'the time has come,' miss kendra said,
'to talk of many things:
of shoes -- and ships -- and sealing wax --
of cabbages -- and sheep --
and why men find cameron diaz hot --
and stories of my peep.'*

over the last two weeks at snb i have found myself telling stories of my special purpose. the only problem with that is that stitch and bitch is held in a public place, and shockingly, i have a loud voice that carries.

by "carries," i mean "causes strangers to listen in and then commence laughing at my humiliation by vagina."

and if strangers (some of them tourists, who will now bring back tales of the crazy white lady's nether regions to their assorted homelands) in the west hollywood farmer's market can get a good laugh, why can't you? why indeed.

close encounter of the vajayjay kind, numero uno**:

when i was in college i had this gynocolololologist who lived right nearby. i was having "issues" with my red states, so i saw her fairly often- and not just in the office, but out and about town. i would see her in the grocery store all the time, but she would just glance at me and move on by. the woman NEVER recognized me.

even when i was seeing her at six to eight week intervals, i was just another girl. i imagine that working in a college's gynocology office mean seeing a whole lotta pussy, so i wasn't really offended.

until.

one day i went in for the usual (oil change, tire rotation, coffee, donuts) and per usual, she looked at me with eyes empty of familiarity. so i adjusted my paper robe, scooted my butt down the table, threw my feet up in the stirrups and waited for what i knew was coming.

she turned around, scary pre-rennaissance medical "tools" in hand, and turned on the lamp (you know the lamp. the right-up-in-your-business-lamp.) then she cocked her head to the side and said with something that can only be described as jubilation, "OH! I remember you."

close encounter of the vajayjay kind, numero dos:

one of my sisters is six years younger than i am, so when she was really little we would bathe together, for her safety (and my obvious desire for exposure to fecal choloform bacteria. she totally pooped the tub once. different story.) we would play around and make bubble hats, fun fun etc etc, so when i started wanting to take my baths alone, it was a hard transition for the little sis to make. see, i went through puberty pretty early. i had to start wearing a for real bra when i was eleven, and i have distinct memories of clutching my chest in agony after a full day of fourth grade, wishing the damn tits would pop out already.

so there i am, probably about eleven, laying in the bathtub, swishing my head back and forth under the water and pretending my hair is a mermaid tail, when my sister creeps into the bathroom, gives me the elevator eyes, and runs from the room S.C.R.E.A.M.I.N.G. her face was contorted in terror and agony- bright red- and here arms were flailing about as she rounded the corner into the kitchen, where my mother, father, aunt, uncle, and godparents sat enjoying coffees.

"what's the matter," my mother asked her, comforting her, worried for her safety.

and my sister looked back towards the bathroom where i was standing in the doorway- soaked, wrapped in a towel, and also concerned for her safety. she looked at me, then turned her face up to my mother and with gusto answered, "kendra's vagina has a moustache."

the end. my blush can be seen from space.


*this is the second time i've used this poem. i like it. also, whenever i hear "i am the walrus" i think of this poem, and how being the walrus essentially means (to me) that you are a person who eats his friends. and then cries about it.

**i'm using numeros because i am bi-lingual. it's cinco de mayo. that means five of mayo. which i am allergic to.