My Vagina’s Pronoun is “She”

When I talk about my vagina I refer to it as “she” and “her”. I understand this is not “normal” behavior, but it’s my behavior, and I’m ok with that. I can’t tell you how many times people have asked me why I refer to my vagina as her own person. Don’t judge me. My answer is, simply put, because SHE is. Let me explain my rational to you.

Think about it, a vagina is…well…have you ever tried to talk to a vagina? The amount of coaxing and urging she needs to do…well…anything! Despite what your brain wants her to do, she is basically going to do whatever she damn well pleases. Pretty sure that’s a woman thing in general. You’re on a date with an amazingly beautiful person. Sparks are flying. A connection is made. You lean in for the kiss and suddenly there is a flood Noah’s arc couldn’t even handle. A few months later, you’re on another date. Sparks are flying. A connection is made. You lean in for the kiss and…nothing. You’re suddenly so dry tumble weeds just blew across your vagina.

She bleeds…pretty much whenever she feels it fits her schedule. So what if she’s three days early?!?! The 27th obviously wasn’t going to work for her. Besides, she’s 35 fucking years old! Who’s got time for punctuality at 35 after pushing out two kids? Not her, that’s for sure.

Then you have special cases, like mine. I mean special in the nicest way possible. She’s been through a lot. Sex, rape, kids, sex, fingers, sex, abuse, timeouts, sex, dry spells, sex. Let’s just say she’s “sensitive”. Not a huge fan of strangers, understandably. They tend to be either too rough or too gentle or too small. Any time there is a new person, she basically stands up, turns around, and runs away screaming “STRANGER DANGER!!!” I all but have to grab her by the scruff, haul her back, and shove her back in place. Toddlers are more agreeable than my vagina. It’s exhausting, but we have been working through it.

My vagina is her own person. Making evil plots against me while I sleep. Sneering at my date from across the table. She’s wicked and wonderful all at the same time. She is her own person, and I shall continue to treat her as such because my vagina’s pronoun is SHE.

Oysters, Fortresses, And Love

I met a man in my early twenties while shopping at LL Bean. He was, simply put, gorgeous. He had eyes that could reach way down inside of you, and lips you couldn’t help but want to kiss. To my surprise, he asked me for my phone number. A week later we had our first date. I remember being so nervous. Dating wasn’t really my thing it still isn’t, so I had absolutely no idea how to act. Add the fact this guy was a dreamboat, and I was pretty much a blubbering idiot the entire day leading up to that night. Being young, dumb, and a college student, I was beside myself over the fact he was going to come to my apartment and pick me up. Like in a car and shit. Weird, right?

I had never had oysters so he insisted we go to a tiny little oyster bar down on the docks. When we walked in the smell of salt and ice filled my nose as he gently took my hand and lead me across the dimly lit bar. We sat at the bar between two burly fishermen just in from their day. Growing up in a fishing town, in a fishing family, this place felt oddly like home. The sounds. The smells. All coupled with a man I couldn’t take my eyes off of.

We sat bellied up to the bar, eating oysters and drinking beer, for hours. We talked about where we were in our lives. What our hopes were. What had brought us to this point. Conversation came so easy and smooth, as he sat there with his hand on my thigh the entire time. At one point I had explained to him about my rocky sexual past. The rape and molestation, and my inability to form valid physical relationships. I was afraid I was falling into a trend of only wanting to have sex with men instead of getting to know them and forming something meaningful. He took both my hands into his, looked me in the eyes, and said, “Let’s not let you slip away like that. No sex. Not tonight. I promise.”

Shortly thereafter we left the comfort of the salty smell and burly fishermen, and he drove me home. He walked me to my door, and I asked him to come inside. Our date continued as we sat on the couch and talked until we could barely keep our eyes open. I invited him to stay until morning. I felt secure in his words about not having sex, and I wanted to experience what it truly meant to sleep next to someone with no expectations. As we laid in bed, limbs entwined, he pressed his body against mine and kissed me gently. Every ounce of me wanted to rub my body against his, pull his clothes off, and feel him inside me. But he had already said “not tonight”. So we didn’t. We simply rubbed gently against each other and fell asleep.

The next morning he kissed my lips as he walked out the door saying he would call me later.

He never called.

When I saw him a few weeks later at LL Bean he pretended he had no idea who I was. He was polite, but still would not acknowledge that he had ever even laid eyes on me before. I was upset, as most people would be. I had felt something I thought was sincere. Something I didn’t know existed. I was suddenly left standing there wondering if it had all been a dream. I often went back to the oyster bar on the docks, looking for that same comfort I had felt that night. I went there with different men, my roommates, and even by myself. The salty air and the burly fishermen were all still there is the dim lights, but the comfort was not. I’m not sure why, but it took me a long time to get past the feeling of lost hope from that night.

I’m past it now, but there are times I look back and wonder what happened. So smooth and cunning. Easy going and handsome. I’ve never met a man like him since. Not one to that level of comfort I felt anyway. Perhaps it’s from the walls I built up after, or the hardening from military service. Now, however, I’m working on knocking down those walls. I’m working on finding that comfort with someone. I’ve learned it’s not the sex, or the lack there of, it’s the ability to let people in. The ability to be confident enough in yourself to open up without being afraid of the hurt that may follow. We are all our own fortresses, and we guard ourselves well. However, every now and then we have to let someone in because living in a fortress by ourselves can be very lonely. Life is, after all, better spent with love.

Driving Into The New England Stereotype

I did it. I hate to admit it, but I did it.

I’ve joined the club of soccer moms, obsessed with their kid’s athletic abilities.

The moms who delay the drop off/pick up process every day at school.

I’ve become a Birkenstock wearing, earth loving, hippie.

Someone who covers every last inch of their bumper with social injustice bumper stickers. Free Tibet! Equality! Legalize medical marijuana! Boring women rarely make history! NPR! Warning, I stop for Goodwill stores!

Move over cautious drivers! This momma is now on the road!

I will no longer be able to park properly in parking lots.

I can now sneer at Honda Pilot drivers.

Finding my car in when coming out of a baseball game will now be impossible without activating the panic button.

Coupled with my short hair, I will now solidify my place in the lesbian community. Thus resulting in never being asked out on a heterosexual date again.

In short, I bought a Subaru. I now fall into all the aforementioned stereotypes, and then some. Despite my need for speed, previous Pilot ownership, and brightly covered tattoos; I am now one of “those” moms. This new purchase has given me the urge to go to the nearest Newbury Comics location and buy up all the Slayer and Anthrax bumper stickers they have in stock. I will have to blast Portishead and Primus albums as I roll through the drop off line in the morning. The struggle is real my friends, and I have thrown myself into the thick of it.

Drop Off Line Twats

I long for the day when the drop off line at school is nothing but a distant memory. When I can sit back and reminisce about all the times I almost got out of my car and stabbed people for treating the drop off line like the entryway to their house. When I can rejoice in never having to watch mother’s clothe their children in the car, shove poptarts down their throats because of piss poor time management at home, or just sit and have a casual conversation with the 10 kids sitting in the backseat ever again.

Until then I will have to continue sitting through the daily agony of the drop off line. Teaching my own children the beautiful art of cursing someone out when they can’t even hear me and daydreaming about following certain people home and slashing their tires for being drop off line twats. Every day the same people mess it up for the rest of us. They sit, blissfully numb, in their minivans and Subaru Foresters as they pull up in front of the school, turn their engines off don’t tell me they are trying to save the environment, get out of the driver’s seat, pull school projects out of the trunk, jam lunch boxes in backpacks, brush wayward hairs from faces, and pull fairy dust out of their ass before they finally get back in the driver’s seat and drive off in a puff of glitter and purple clouds.

To them, the drop off line is a time for gathering thoughts and belongings before sending their young on their merry way. For the rest of us, the drop off line is for dropping kids off and getting the hell out of dodge! The majority of parents rolling through the drop off line have their kids fully dressed, armed with lunches, school projects piled high on their laps, and ready for departure. Most kids are lucky parents even come to a full and complete stop when letting them out. I am sure I am not the only one tempted to slow down to a crawl, and let my kid tuck and roll into the schoolyard.

So, if you’re a drop off line twat, quit it. Get your kids ready before you leave the house like the rest of us, and stop doing whatever it is you’re doing in the car. Learn some time management skills, stop treating your kids like little morons who can’t do anything for themselves, and kick those little shits out of the car already!!! Because the truth is, the rest of us know who the repeat offenders are, and have come to the conclusion that you make every morning feel like a Monday morning.

Meandering Mommy Madness

Er mer gerd you guys! I can’t even begin to tell you just how crazy things have been! So much has been going on, I don’t even know where to begin. I hate doing bullet points, maily because I do them every day at work and lists freak me out, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to give you the cliff notes version of things until I actually get my rear in gear and jestfully fill you in on all my meandering mommy madness. Get ready. Get set. Here come the bullet points! Chill out, there are only four.

  • I had the honor and privilege to sit down and talk with an absolutely amazing man from Curacao who is making a difference, not only environmentally, but in the lives of the people around him. Other than this man being pretty fantastic, ladies, he’s pretty darn cute too. Just saying.
  • The kids and I bought a pig. Her name is Bacon Seed. She should be in our freezer by Thanksgiving. In the meantime, be prepared for photos of the growing swine, llamas licking my son’s head, and my daughter being terrified of free range chickens. I may even throw in a few mentions of me being covered in pig shit and how difficult it is to teach children that pork scraps CANNOT go into the pig slop. We are now pig farmers after all.
  • I promised you all updates about my dating adventures, and i have given you one. Which was a complete bust. Well, it’s not so much of an adventure so to say right now, but it will be in a few short weeks as I take my travels across international borders, and see just how well a certain man can deal with my farting and impromptu naps after a few beers. He has been warned, but you never know because he has never smelled one of my farts.
  • My quest to shrink my ass from a size 14 back down to a size 12, as well as actually braving a bikini in public. Add a hint of trampoline fun, where I learn my ass cheeks can hit the back of my head if I jump hard enough. Worst case scenario, my ass doesn’t shrink, I’m stuck wearing a bikini to the beach, and my kids use me for shade from the hot summer sun. At least someone wins.

So there you have it. I PROMISE to get my act together this week and pump this stuff out for you. You’ll laugh. You’ll cry. You may even stop reading all together. Then I will hunt you down, steal your first born, and strategically place glitter bombs around you house and inside your car. Your choice, really.

The Vagina Ledge

I’d like to have a little discussion about my vagina. No, you perverts, not that kind of discussion. She doesn’t do parlor tricks like shooting ping pong balls across the room or lip sink to popular tunes from the 80’s, so don’t get yourselves too worked up from the excitement.  My vagina and I have had a long standing love hate relationship. I should re-word that, we have a long standing hate relationship. I hate her, she hates me. Every once in a while we get along, but it’s more like how a prison inmate gets along with their lawyer during visiting hours. We’re there for one reason, and one reason alone. It’s not a pretty relationship, but we live with it, and it works.

I’ll start off by saying, she’s dramatic. Always getting herself twisted about one ting or another. Her period, UTI’s, baby fever, new penises…you know, the usual. She tenses up, swears at me, and all but packs up to leave. It’s kind of her thing, I let her have her moment, and then we carry on with our day. Ops normal, move along, nothing to see here. We go through this, day in and day out. It’s a constant struggle, but we manage. I have noticed, however, that in her old age she is a bit more prone to suggestion. I see a baby, she swells up and starts ovulating. I mention UTI, and she won’t let me go near a bathroom for hours. New penis? Forget about it. She shuts the steal doors, and swallows the key. There is no way a new penis is ever visiting again. Believe it or not, I’m usually ok with all these little quirks of hers. It is what it is, and I can manage.

Her newest thing because new is awesome is really what’s bothering me. A good friend of mine always gets her period the week before me. Always. She finishes, three days later I start. Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to have a friendly heads up as to when the demons are coming to eat your uterus. What I don’t like is when her vagina, who is obviously a bitch, decides to start her period a whole week early. Yes, a whole week. I keep track. My vagina heard this on Sunday, and was cramping up like she was ready to die by Monday night. I sat there on my couch, hunched over, trying to sweet talk her away from the dark side. By 1 a.m. the cramps were waking me up, and my back was hurting. I was convinced my period would be starting with the sunrise. Alas, I woke up the next morning to nothing, nothing but mild cramps. By the time I left for work, I had finally talked her off the ledge. The day was then littered with mini menstrual moments, of which I assume, will continue for another week until the actual day arrives. Oh joy is me. Oh joy to my vagina, as she teeters on the ledge taunting the uterus eating demons.

As I said before, I’d like to have a little discussion about my vagina. I hate her, she hates me.

I Should Love My Body, But I Don’t

Reasons I should love my body:

  • I gave birth to two amazing human beings.
  • My curves tell a story.
  • At 35 years old, I still turn heads.
  • Every stretch mark and every sag is there for a reason.
  • My body is mine.
  • It’s the one thing I have complete control over.

Reasons I don’t love my body:

  • As soon as I started to develop, the older boys on the bus started inviting me to sit with them in the back. There they would grope and fondle me as they laughed among themselves, all the while telling me to stay quiet.
  • In 1994 a much older teen-aged boy thought it would be fun to get me drunk, have sex with me as I cried, and leave me in a pool of my own vomit, I was 14.
  • In 2001 a man in a bar slipped something into my drink, brought me to a hotel, took advantage of me while I was passed out, and then forced himself on me when I woke up in the morning.

Sexual assault comes in all forms, and beats a person down mentally and physically. It leaves scars that won’t heal. It brings us a lifetime of pain, and makes it difficult to carry on meaningful relationships. Many of us end up lashing out sexually, thinking it will somehow ease the pain. Sex becomes a series of motions instead of e-motions. We are angry. We feel alone. We are scared to open ourselves up. We end up in bad relationships where we don’t matter. You only have to be the victim one time to feel completely lost. One time to think you’re ugly. One time to hate yourself. As a victim I have spent time drowning my fears in drugs and alcohol. There was a long period of time where I used men for sex, and didn’t care who got hurt. I’ve been through years of counseling and therapy, but the scars sexual assault have left me with will never go away. Every time I look in the mirror all I see is ugliness and hate. Every day is a struggle, learning to love my body because of all the wonderful things it has done. I hope that one day I won’t have the constant pain I carry inside, that one day I will love myself again.

April is sexual assault awareness month. This month, take a moment to educate yourself on the facts of sexual assault and the affects it has on victims and their families. If you or someone you know has been sexually assaulted, contact the authorities, and get help. No one should have to live a life of pain and self doubt because they were taken advantage of.