;)
Tuesday
Nov092010
Bigger. Stronger. Faster. Pussycat.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010 at 1:01AM
Imagine you have a house. A normal ol' run-of-the-mill, not too big, white picket fence, American dream on a budget house. Inside that house is a load-bearing wall, a support beam that holds everything up that should be up, so that everything to the side can stay aside. This is a very important wall, we all know. Now imagine that in a very short course of time you put another house on top of your house, one that weighed the same as the original house, plus five pounds. Imagine you didn't add another load bearing wall.
Picture in your mind what that wall would start to do.
Now imagine that you rammed a Mac truck into that wall.
And then did it again, 23 months later to the day. And then once more 7 1/2 years later, for good measure.
Before the roof fell in and everything that was supposed to be up french kissed the basement, the walls would probably start to crumble. That fauz southwestern stucco facade you spent weeks carefully applying with sponges and brooms and 170 grit sandpaper and a shaman's blessing would have all but disintegrated before your eyes. The pipes in the wall might start to bend and twist and wrap around other pipes, ones the don't have any business touching. The wires might start to cross. Mere anarchy might just be loosed upon a world you couldn't even see, because it was all neatly hidden under a picture of your great grandmother Pearl.
But someday, you're going to want to hang a new picture. And then, friends, kaboom.
And that's exactly what happened to my chocha.
Anyone who follows me on Twitter with any amount of vigor will recall a conversation on April 23rd between myself and my two favorite dotcomrades, Two Busy and Adam P Knave, wherein we took it upon ourselves to scientifically analyze the feasibility and the moral, religion and socio-economical impact of turning my vagina into a potato radio. We're pretty sure that with the right mixture of Masingil, hardwiring and old fashioned elbow grease, it could be done. We're also pretty sure that Jesus hates it when you talk about making 7th grade science projects out of vaginas on Twitter, because as sure as the Pope wears a funny hat, here I sit 7 months later with a six million dollar vagina.
Sadly enough, I cannot get NPR on the damn thing. I blame the liberal elitist socialist agenda propaganda machine.
Your body has a wall, in between your evacuatory tract and your reproductive tract, and that wall helps you sneeze without peeing your pants and helps you poo out our booty and not your money-maker, and helps your internal organs stay way up where they belong, where the eagles fly on a mountain high. Your body does, mine didn't. Mine tore in half, all the way top to bottom clean in half, sometime between 1998 and now, no one's really sure which kid I get to saddle with the guilt of this for the rest of their life.
You will know this is happening to you when your OB asks you during a routine exam if you ever feel like things are falling, and you say yes, and then he asks you if he can stick his fingers up your bumm and poke around, and you say I'm going to owe you dinner after this, aren't I?* and then he looks up from between your legs and says, "Um, how old are you again?" and you say, "35?" and he says, "Huh, 'cause I can see Russia from your house."
When your OB can wave at himself through your vagina via your rectum, your house dun broke.
Needless to say, there was a good amount of reconstructive/plastic/biological transplanty surgery to be done in order to fix the Bubble Yum Wind Tunnel and its supporting cast. Everything from the public bone south had either torn completely in half (rectal-vaginal fascia), disintegrated (perineum, pelvic floor) dropped (uterus, bladder, Dow Jones Industrial Average) or had distended itself beyond function (labia, vaginal wall, rectal wall). All of that was repaired over the course of 5 hours, and they even took care of that whole pesky MY UTERUS IS ATTEMPTING TO KILL ME FROM THE INSIDE OUT thing I had going on, by yanking it out and suspending the tucked, tightened, pulled, yanked and shrunken vagina from the ligaments that once held Chez Mr Lady in place.
Post-op, my doctor told me "that whole thing (sweeping hand gesture around the source of my power and femininity)" was the single worst he'd ever seen on anyone, and he usually sees this only in women over 70. I told him he a way with women and it was amazing he was still single.
But then he told me that he'd given me the "hand-sweep again" I had when I was 16, and if I hadn't been completely annihilated on morphine I probably would have punched him in the throat because now I'm going to have to deal with a "hand-sweep" that is too emo to make any friends and can't even get a date to the prom and thinks that Extreme is, like, seriously, the GREATEST BAND ALIVE.
*True story. I am made of class.
Picture in your mind what that wall would start to do.
Now imagine that you rammed a Mac truck into that wall.
And then did it again, 23 months later to the day. And then once more 7 1/2 years later, for good measure.
Before the roof fell in and everything that was supposed to be up french kissed the basement, the walls would probably start to crumble. That fauz southwestern stucco facade you spent weeks carefully applying with sponges and brooms and 170 grit sandpaper and a shaman's blessing would have all but disintegrated before your eyes. The pipes in the wall might start to bend and twist and wrap around other pipes, ones the don't have any business touching. The wires might start to cross. Mere anarchy might just be loosed upon a world you couldn't even see, because it was all neatly hidden under a picture of your great grandmother Pearl.
But someday, you're going to want to hang a new picture. And then, friends, kaboom.
And that's exactly what happened to my chocha.
Anyone who follows me on Twitter with any amount of vigor will recall a conversation on April 23rd between myself and my two favorite dotcomrades, Two Busy and Adam P Knave, wherein we took it upon ourselves to scientifically analyze the feasibility and the moral, religion and socio-economical impact of turning my vagina into a potato radio. We're pretty sure that with the right mixture of Masingil, hardwiring and old fashioned elbow grease, it could be done. We're also pretty sure that Jesus hates it when you talk about making 7th grade science projects out of vaginas on Twitter, because as sure as the Pope wears a funny hat, here I sit 7 months later with a six million dollar vagina.
Sadly enough, I cannot get NPR on the damn thing. I blame the liberal elitist socialist agenda propaganda machine.
Your body has a wall, in between your evacuatory tract and your reproductive tract, and that wall helps you sneeze without peeing your pants and helps you poo out our booty and not your money-maker, and helps your internal organs stay way up where they belong, where the eagles fly on a mountain high. Your body does, mine didn't. Mine tore in half, all the way top to bottom clean in half, sometime between 1998 and now, no one's really sure which kid I get to saddle with the guilt of this for the rest of their life.
You will know this is happening to you when your OB asks you during a routine exam if you ever feel like things are falling, and you say yes, and then he asks you if he can stick his fingers up your bumm and poke around, and you say I'm going to owe you dinner after this, aren't I?* and then he looks up from between your legs and says, "Um, how old are you again?" and you say, "35?" and he says, "Huh, 'cause I can see Russia from your house."
When your OB can wave at himself through your vagina via your rectum, your house dun broke.
Needless to say, there was a good amount of reconstructive/plastic/biological transplanty surgery to be done in order to fix the Bubble Yum Wind Tunnel and its supporting cast. Everything from the public bone south had either torn completely in half (rectal-vaginal fascia), disintegrated (perineum, pelvic floor) dropped (uterus, bladder, Dow Jones Industrial Average) or had distended itself beyond function (labia, vaginal wall, rectal wall). All of that was repaired over the course of 5 hours, and they even took care of that whole pesky MY UTERUS IS ATTEMPTING TO KILL ME FROM THE INSIDE OUT thing I had going on, by yanking it out and suspending the tucked, tightened, pulled, yanked and shrunken vagina from the ligaments that once held Chez Mr Lady in place.
Post-op, my doctor told me "that whole thing (sweeping hand gesture around the source of my power and femininity)" was the single worst he'd ever seen on anyone, and he usually sees this only in women over 70. I told him he a way with women and it was amazing he was still single.
But then he told me that he'd given me the "hand-sweep again" I had when I was 16, and if I hadn't been completely annihilated on morphine I probably would have punched him in the throat because now I'm going to have to deal with a "hand-sweep" that is too emo to make any friends and can't even get a date to the prom and thinks that Extreme is, like, seriously, the GREATEST BAND ALIVE.
*True story. I am made of class.
Reader Comments (96)
a) watch out for razor blades. Those emo party barns really do hate their mothers and selves. b) you do realize that you just insinuated that there was enough clearance in your ass-tract that a full-sized, male, human hand could fit in it, wave, and that there was enough room (and visual trajectory?) for said hand owner to watch this movement occur through said pre-emo-phase party barn, right? Just checking.
I'd make a joke about prozac for the vagina, but all I can think of is what the conjunction of the two words would be: vag-sac. Sounds like mid-transition equipment. WAIT. Are you IN FACT a lady, becoming a mister? I apologize for this whole comment. Quitting smoking is much saner on you than I.
You wanna know why I've been hesitant to let anyone sweep around inside me? Cos I am certain everything is falling out.
Also, ouch.
Also also, I probably shouldn't giggle as much as I am.
hubba bubba double chew. with all sincerity.
Not depressing, I swear. http://www.whiskeyinmysippycup.com/2010/11/09/bigger-stronger-faster-pussycat/
THINGS FALL? Dude, I really thought people were making that shit up just to be dramatic. Seriously, your OB asked you if you felt like things were falling and you were all "oh, yeah all the time." ????
Did you not freak the fuck out when your felt the first beam collapse or does it not feel that bad? Is it just a shifty feeling? You have completely freaked me out, as the resident hypochondriac. Maybe all that gas I feel after morning coffee ISN'T GAS and it's actually something falling.
Holy shezaam Batman, that was quite the description.
Maybe THAT is was freaked me out...the giant, um, ass tract.
I have no words. Really. Because I am laughing and wincing in commiseration at the same time. Though if we ever meet I totally want to see the hand sweep. And also I am thinking I need to go get a check-up just because wow, all that ACTION down in the nether regions, I am almost, well, jealous! :)
Damn kids ruin everything. The couches, the vajayjay and accompanying nether regions, everything. "I can see Russia from your house." HA! And lord perserve us all from ever being 16 again.
I had an OB who decided upon delivering my daughter that she was going to give me the "hand sweep" of a sixteen year old again. Except it was more like the return of the heavily padlocked chastity belt. I had to have a different gyno return my "hand sweep" to its former, old lady state. Mind you, it was only the outer part of the, er, area, but Jesus wept, that hurt. And all the months in between where my fake virginity went inviolate due to the whole "I can't get it in!" part. {{shudder}}
I hope your new 16 year old cooch has better success!
My husband's grandmother had the whole "hand sweep" poke its head out the front door. This shit's real. It falls.
OHJESUS. Your...*handsweep*...was JACKED UP. Man oh man! My aunt had the same *handsweep* issue and the recovery from the surgery to fix it was no joke. Also, you make me feel like a bad human being because I about died laughing while reading about the whole *handsweep* debacle. HAAAA (see, totes going to hell).
I hope to hell he at least installed a disco ball in there while he was busy with the *handsweep* and the other *handsweep* and the ripping down of the curtains and such. Every new-again vagina needs a disco ball.
Excellent. And Extreme was only the best band ever between "More" and "Words". Then they were done.
This post makes me glad I birthed my daughter through my ear instead.
I involuntarily Kegel'd about 20 times while reading this. Best of luck with your 16-year-old handsweep!
Um, first... African or European?
Second. Does it still have that new vagina smell?
Thirdly and lastly, I'm glad I'm not the only one who has to change her underwear several times a day.
I'm just glad yer ok. Love ya, crazy lady.
Oh wow! I had no idea about all of that. Yikes!
Falling. Suddenly those inversion table things sound like a good idea. Nah, I don't mind that whole blood rushing to the head thing.
Thankfully, they can rebuild it. They have the technology. (How would you spell that six million dollar man sound?) Cha cha cha cha
Yeah, that's not it.
I have learned that it is dangerous to my health to read your blog and try to drink or eat anything in the manner in which nature intended but I was pretty sure that breathing wouldn't have put my life in jeopardy. I was mistaken. Wincing, crossing my legs to hold my innards... well... in, snorting and trying to breath air all while laughing hysterically at the same time induced a coughing fit (no, I don't have a cold) I nearly choked on.
I've thought about this and just what can you possibly say to someone who has had this happen to them... besides 'ouch'? I'm glad your plumbing problem got fixed? How about I just say I'm glad you survived with your humor intact. Life wouldn't be the same without it and you.
Yowza, owie and praise all this is, uh, behind you now! I am puckering, kegeling, wondering if I need to *sweep* and concerned for you all at the same time. Get better soon! I also want to know how long the new vagina smell lasts.
My contractor could have given you a great deal on that. And you could have boasted that you now have slate pelvic flooring.
Also, next time you're at work, remind me never to use the hand sweep gesture when I'm explaining that you have to finish the customer fulfillment.
Even though I knew the story, I still couldn't stop reading this version. You're the real one-two punch, you know...the serious and emotional followed *whap whap* by the hilarious. I'm just glad to know that the whole *hand sweep* has a sense of humor too, although I am sorry for you that it will now slink around the house sighing with unrequited everything every time Madonna's "Crazy for You" comes on.
Holy falling walls, friend! I knew you were dealing with some renovations, but not of this nature.
I hope you figure out which kid wrecked ya. That shit needs to be addressed.
I adore you. I've already deleted like three paragraphs of ways in which I have tried to explain how honored I felt to get to read this, so I'll just leave this here before I mess it up again: I adore reading you.
My beaver love for you has never been stronger.
The feeling is so stupidly mutual, you don't even know.
(I wasn't exactly insinuating. You're so glad we never did it now, aren't you?)
Holy Shiz. That's dreadful. And I thought my clean, little tear and hemroids sucked. Ouchy, fuckity ouch. I bow in your general direction.
Oh Holy Mother of God I will never look at anyone do the "hand-sweep" the same ever again!!! Once again your post makes me whine, whinge, cringe and giggle all at once - you rock!!!
I will probably never uncross my legs again.
Ever.
Or at least for a really long time.
I'm really glad you're ok, I know you funnied it up and all but that is some major surgery you just had and my vajajay was singing "OW FUCKITY OW OW!" the whole time I was reading your post.
Glad you're going to have a brand new cooch...almost makes up for the horror! And you are so very cool for sharing this on your blog. Crazy lady.
We ain't dead yet, sister. But you did say 'never' and that's usually a guarantee of shenanigans.
And is TERRIFIED of tampons.
You are awesome. And I am terribly sorry for this whole *hand sweep* ordeal.
True dat, double true.
Meow.
Didn't really feel it. It's a gradual process and I just wrote it all off to gaining 105 pounds in pregnancy and having 3 kids and getting old. Because I'm an asshole.
and now I have a new one. :)
GET THEE TO A DOCTOR. I waited so long, I'm in absolute misery now. If I could go back and fix this earlier? Would, in a heart beat.
THis is why you're still my favorite.
I would probably show you. I think we're at that point in our relationship, don't you?
THIS IS WHAT I'M SAYING.
I am so so so very much afraid of that. We'll find out in 4 weeks. Fingers crossed. :)
I can't tell you how many jokes have been made about this on so many levels, from intimate to corporate. Laugh away, dude.
I really wanted some helper arms. I don't think I got them. #dammit.
EWWWWWW. And OUUUUUCH.
Things can fall? Dude. I just started running again. Do I need duct tape or something?
(Glad you are okay.)
xo
See? This blog is a public servant.
[...] This post was mentioned on Twitter by Mr Lady and Mr Lady, Tanis Miller. Tanis Miller said: Mr Lady is talking about COOTERS!! My type of gal. RT @mrlady: Bigger. Stronger. Faster. Pussycat. http://bit.ly/c3Kdbt [...]
oh sure. make me laugh until my house collapses in a puddle.
i wish i still taught high school biology. i'd bring this in. it'd be like bio and birth control, all in one class!
feel better soon. :)
At my last gyno appt the doc asked if I ever have leakage...ie when coughing etc and I said no. She looked at me like I am nuts and most likely lying. Then she did the exam and was all surprised and shit. I guess after two vaginal births and at age 37 things should be closer to falling. This post makes me sooo glad they aren't!!
I got lucky; I never had an issue with pee. Yet. It was coming, though. And now my bladder is hotglued to my larynx, so I think I'm in the clear.
You're like a goddamn teddy bear, you.