My phone fell into the toilet. With just the unbuttoning of my pants, a miniscule splash warned me of its plunge from my back pocket. My super-fast reflexes got it out within seconds, but the device fizzled to its untimely death. Dead phone.
Read the rest of the article on The Next Family.—>
I was about seven when I heard an off-color joke I didn’t understand. My mom explained it as politely as she could.
“Well, Laurenne, some men like to joke around and say that a woman’s private parts smell like fish.”
Aaaaand that was the beginning of a very long paranoia about the scent of my own vagina.
I don’t remember my mom ever saying much else about it. There was no, “Any private part that’s stuffed into a sealed-off underpant all day long is about to catch some sweaty scent– even balls.”
That would have been slightly comforting. If she did say that, all I heard was “Holy shit! Your vagina’s gonna smell like fish one day and some guy’s gonna think you’re disgusting.”
It didn’t stop there. Once the junior high kids got wind of the rumor, they spread it all over the place. The bullies at school would call the boys “faggots” and tell the girls their lady parts were full of shrimp. As if I didn’t already have to worry about the rubber bands on my braces snapping or my bra stuffing falling out. Now I had to worry about how fresh I was. I even considered douching. This was in the 90s, a douche bag’s heyday– before the term was ruined by Ed Hardy.
Mortified, I didn’t let anyone go near my shrimp spot. No way, Hosni (keepin’ it current up on this new blog, yo!).
As I got to the age when guys actually wanted to explore down there, I cautiously giggled my way out of those situations. That stupid fish rumor single-handedly ruined all my early sexual experiences, making them way more one-sided than they should have been. Thanks a lot, society. You owe me at least twenty orgasms.
It’s been a long road, but I think I have finally veered off the path of pungent paranoia. This happened because 1.) I have smelled enough balls to know that women should NOT be cowering in some corner as if WE have a problem. 2.) I’m no longer in high school where people are gossiping about whose snatch smells the worst. 3.) I’ve come to enjoy my womanhood so much that I wish that I could bottle it. What? What’s that you say? You say that someone has figured out how to encapsulate womanhood?
SOMEONE HAS FIGURED OUT HOW TO ENCAPSULATE WOMANHOOD! Bottled. Vulva aroma. Vulvaroma. AND MEN ARE BUYING IT for 25 euros. It came out in 2009, and I can’t believe I am just now breaking wind of it. Why aren’t more women exploiting this? This invention is a WIN for all womankind.
Whether or not you buy it or use it, we finally have proof that some people love the scent of a woman. So much so that they want to wear it. Actually, the website says a tiny amount is applied onto the back of the hand “and the irresistible smell that exudes from a sensuous vagina immediately intensifies your erotic fantasies.” Men and lesbians can hit arousal just by smelling our cannelloni! Can somebody please start spreading this around so the current generation’s pre-teens don’t have to go through so much vaginal angst?
In closer speculation of the video, you will note that the smoldering German model goes in for the sniff after the vulva is all worked out. MEN ARE EVEN ATTRACTED TO THE SCENT OF A WOMAN AFTER THE GYM! The creator of the Vulva-in-a-bottle claims it took him over a year to find the right combination of urine, sweat, and female arousal.
Rejoice! I am feeling a female freedom I’ve never felt before. I feel like having sex once without showering beforehand (Just once.). I feel like doing the splits naked at the nearest gas station. I feel like shoving my loin divider into the noses of every man on the street and then charging 25 euros.
But how accurate is it? I scoured the internets for some reviews. One chick says the scent is very accurate, and another British talk show host put some on his fingers and joked that he couldn’t go home to his wife (British humor– not always funny). Does this confirmation by many mean that all vaginas smell the same? British ones and American ones? Mine and yours? The perfumers claim the scent was extracted from only a ‘beautiful’ woman, but I have a feeling ugly women don’t smell bad just because they’re ugly. And if most people who smell it claim it to be accurate, doesn’t that mean all women share a similar scent? Rejoice again! We spend years utterly paranoid about how horrible we must smell when our ladinesses are all exactly the same and really smell good enough to bottle.
In an interview in the Examiner, a gay man with no prior vulva experience said that Vulva smells like Christmas.
There you have it, folks. We learned a big lesson today. Society needs to stop with the rumors and jokes about fishy vaginas. Women don’t smell like fish. We smell like commercialism and ham.
Hey, jerks. Quit saying we smell like vaginas.
This blog is one of my favoritest things to do in the whole world. It’s the reason I stayed in a beach bungalow in Malaysia and never came out of my bungalow. It’s the reason my relationships fail and why I never go out ever. But that’s okay because I love it and I choose it and I’m totally fine with being single for the rest of my life as long as I have commenters telling me I’m funny.
I’ve decided to take it up a notch. Not only have I ordered a straight jacket-like device to tether myself to my computer, I have just upgraded to WordPress. If you have no idea what this means (hi, Mom! ), I warned you this post was for blog nerds only. There is STILL such a fiery debate online about which platform is better, and I was swayed by lots of bloggers to finally switch over. I mainly wanted to be able to respond better to comments and to take advantage of the SEO. Because, seriously, for such a passionate project, not many people are reading this here blog. Still. Since 2008.
I wanted to be more professional so, after spending two full weekends crying at my computer, I decided it was worth the money to actually pay someone to give this blog a re-design. I went with shatterboxx media because they say they’re gutsy. And then I told the designer, Jamie, I wanted the simplest design ever. Very gutsy. I’m not even sure they’ll claim this as theirs, but I LOVE it! Get it!? The robots are saying that humans are funny. Get it!? If you’re reading this in a reader, check it out, man. The robots are laughing at us. Get it?!
WordPress only transfered over 80% of my links, so I’ll have to go through and figure out which are missing. They also did not transfer over the commenters’ links, so that’s annoying. I’m also confused about the feed, so I have to still work that out. And some links don’t yet work. But STILL, I’m already loving it so much more than Blogger. It’s very simple, and is so much more customizable. I definitely feel more legit now that I can get my opinion in the cool blogger debate. WordPress! WordPress! WordPress! If you think that’s blognerdy, you should also know that I’ve signed up for the next WordPress conference, so I will be talking with other blog nerds all about their favicons and traffic tips. Yes!
What’s that you say? You say this weekend is meant to be spent at the beach, frolicking in the sun because it’s a 3-day weekend and that’s what people do? No, my friends. The presidents would want me to be inside working hard on this here blog. Trust me. I know presidents. Barack emails me almost every day.
If you have any feedback on this new design, I’d love to hear it. I like feedback.
The eighties were a fine decade. I was there. I admit they existed. I had a Caboodle and holey jean shorts. Sadly, I wasn’t old enough to partake in all the free-flowing cocaine and dollar bills I hear mentioned when someone daydreams of the eighties. I also missed out on the music so often played now at frat parties and dive bars. My dad listened to opera. My mom listened to Motown. I didn’t have any older siblings to introduce me to cool stuff like that band with the one-armed drummer. Until college, I really thought there was a very famous deaf leopard at some zoo.
For me, the eighties were a decade of dates at McDonald’s Playland, torturing babysitters and learning why my fingers smelled funny when I stuck them in my butt. When I think of my past, I much prefer to reminisce about the nineties, when I wore padded bras, spent dates at Olive Garden and moved to California.
Some people, however, lived their best years in that colorful decade. They had sex in a bathroom at the Rainbow Room with Ron Jeremy. They bought stock in IBM. They amassed the biggest collection of cassettes and betas on the block. They fucked every White Snake member on a black lacquered table. They partied with Wham at fancy beach parties and tattooed roses on their tits. They wore shoulder pads and sold real estate and then went home to their black and red apartments to drink fancy wine with a side of cocaine.
They lived through that decade. And some refuse to believe it’s over. These eighties dwellers aren’t trendsetters who are ‘getting back to their roots’ by adopting an updated set of leggings from Forever XXI. In the twenty years since that decade, Eighties Leighdies haven’t changed and they don’t want to. Some still have small traces of pink zinc oxide in the creases of their noses. They’re a rapidly endangered species, but they make appearances at Au Bon Pains and Kinkos locations near you. When I see one, I nod my head and smile in understanding. Because I get it. I know they can’t let go of a time so great. I understand why they want to continue to look like an extra in Working Girl. Because Working Girls had it made. They had power in their bangs and knew how to work a shoulder pad.
The next time you see an Eighties Leighdy, whether she’s in a full set of Lee press-ons and a pantsuit that tapers over a pair of Reeboks or sandblasted denim cutoffs, a Duran Duran concert T-shirt, and a pink fannie pack, don’t judge her as living in the past. See her as reveling in the best years of her life.
And maybe, just maybe… throw her up a real nice, powerful, hang ten. Show her you know she’s totally radical.
Note: It was not my intention to draw the Eighties Leighdy to look like Jay Leno.
Sometimes I’m on the fence about whether real love truly exists.
I mean, it must. That’s why there are lots of chocolates and cards sold today.
Because people are in love.
I’m also on the fence about whether or not I’ve ever felt this love stuff. I mean, when I’m in it, I believe that I’m in it. But when I’m not in it, I don’t have a clue if I was really in it. You get me?
Either way, I definitely know that I want it. And in that spirit, The Huffington Post has published the piece I wrote about just that a few months ago right here. It all starts here on this blog that still nobody really reads. Except you. YOU! I love you. You, I am sure I love. You are the one.
Here’s a dose of sappy love on your Monday of San Valentin:
You Can’t Buy Love at the Drive-Thru
