Douche regularly with Lysol

I saw this somewherethefuck a while ago and tucked it away for a day like today. Please consider this my belated Valentine's Day gift to you -- because I just love Valentine's Day. Ahem.

But seriously, how horrifically hilarious is this?! Wow. We were even MORE stupid back then that I could have ever possibly imagined. I wouldn't be surprised if we found another old ad telling us to blow carbon monoxide up our asses to make our farts disappear.

Doubt. Inhibitions. Ignorance . . . INDEED.

And if by some chance it's fake (I actually hope it's fake), then it's just amusing in a fabulously warped way.

I would feel much better in knowing that our grandmothers did not, in fact, douche with Lysol. But then again, it might explain some things . . . like Donald Trump.

----------------------------------------------------

Vagina on Fire

(Alternate title: The Antibiotics Lament)
Please feel free to sing this to the tune of Sex on Fire by Kings of Leon. . . 

Ya know, if you want.

--------------------------------------------

It's like my vaj's dying

I hope no one's around

I shouldn't be scratchin' 

But I'm scratchin'

Applying the lotion

The hubs wants to play 

But I'm cock blockin' 

Blockin'

Yaa-ho

My vaj is on fire

In the darkness of my valley

There'll be no foreplay 

This yeast is thrivin' 

It's thrivin' 

I'm really hopin' 

That Vagisil's on sale. 

It feels like I'm dyin' 

I'm dyin'

Yaa-ho

My vaj is on fire

Consumed

With an itch that is dire 

Hot as a fever

Down in my zone

Don't taste it 

What the fuck is wrong with you? 

It's not forever 

It's just my current plight 

I just had the greatest, 
The greatest. . .
Scratch of my life. 

Yaa-ho

My vaj is on fire

Yaa-ho

My vaj is on fire

Yaa-ho

My vaj is on fire

Consumed

With an itch that is dire

--------------------------------------------

I have also posted over at In The Powder Room! It's about trying to find gawd damn Wall.E toys in NYC (or anywhere other than eBay for that matter). Let's just say that it was good motherfucking times.

'Cos I'm, like, hairy?

Over the last couple months, there has been some women (specifically Emer O'Toole & Charlotte Free) that have been making a statement about feminism and what constitutes femininity over, say, infantilisation by ceasing to shave their body hair - legs, pubes and pits. This post is by no means written with angry PMS coursing through my veins. Au contraire. I was actually laughing out loud and shaking my head (that's right, a real LOL-SMH for realzies) when I was reading/watching these women talk about their new found "freedom".

Snorty snort snort.

This issue is so multifaceted. Of course it is - or else it wouldn't be making headlines, but there's only two points that I really want to discuss today, to prevent me from crapping on for an eternity.

ONE: Who would you rather? 
I don't give a fuck whose rose colored glasses you want me to look though, but the world is a shallow, cruel place, especially in Western culture. Them's the facts. Is it right? Of course not, but there it is. And here's poor, "brave" Charlotte Free with her cute little hairy armpits. Awwweeeee...

{Source: Terry Richardson via Have you heard the latest}

Emer O'Toole attempts to be funny with her answer to the question "Don’t men find you physically repulsive and refuse to engage in sexual and/or romantic relations with you?" but goes on to say that ALL the boyfriends she has had have been OK with it.

Of. Course. They. Are.

She's adorable. Christ, even I want to have sex with her!

These women could fucking braid their pits and put beads on the ends and men will still fall at their feet. I think Emer's kind of completely missed the point which is: Whether or not she has hair on her pits, she's still beautiful! I did three takes on her answer, laughing the whole time and picturing her saying it while smacking gum and twirling her hair. Okay, that might have been slightly bitchy, but you get the point.

I'm not saying that I can't take her seriously since she's stunning either, because THAT would be anti-feminist of me. I'm merely stating that a lot of women that look like that (including many of my own girl friends) have no fucking clue when they say things like, "Awe, those guys are soooo nice!" that those guys just so happened to be the same guys that were complete assholes to me... simply because I didn't look like her.

This would be a more accurate portrayal of me the "average" woman going au naturale.

{Source: eBaum's World}

And if she's cool with that? Then rock on, sista! But it's not for everyone. And it's not as "easy" as it is in Terry's little bubble world.

Just by using these two photos alone proves my point that most people are shallow dick smacks - since the one of Charlotte gets put on the cover of a magazine, and the caption of this Leopard-print Lady (that I purposely cropped out) was something like "Will someone please get me a razor and a shot gun?" Awful.

I rest my case.

TWO: You, Me & my silk panties.
I don't even see why this is a "feminist" issue at all. It's a personal grooming choice. Are there societal conventions? Hell yes, but using it to make some sort of equality statement bores me, especially since it's not 1960. Yawn.

Pro-Choice
Equal salaries
Benefits
Child care

These are feminist issues. You want a hairy snatch? Go right ahead. Personally, I detest the feeling of hairy armpits on myself. I don't give a rat's ass if men prefer one look to the other, it's purely a decision I made for myself a long time ago. Forget feminism, it's not even about femininity either, it just feels good.

I had once described my over zealous pubic area as being likened to that of Russell Brand's hair style. And I didn't like it one bit. I will NEVER forget the first time I shaved the bottom half of my glory box (I keep the top growing, so to maintain my womanly essence) and I have to say, it was fucking a-mazing.

I happened to have a nice little pair of silk panties and when I put them on I was like, "WHOA, BABY."

Then I sat on my boyfriend's face and it was like, "HOOOOLY GAWD!"

And apart from my eyes rolling inside my head, I've never looked back.

So, yes, there may come a day when I will join a picket line and hoist a sign in support of woman's rights, but I will never, not ever deny myself of a good shave.

Unless I went on Survivor.

But we all know how that would work out.

Just sayin'


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Note: Error of the model's name fixed thanks to The Tsarista.
Lesson learned: Don't drink and blog... too often.
x

That Damned Cervixen

In conversations with mothers, both close friends and new acquaintances alike, I have used my favourite "tattoo vs motherhood" analogy in conversations many, many times, but it's occurred to me that I've never written it down. It goes a little something like this:

Motherhood is like getting a tattoo because while you're getting the tattoo, you're all like, "Jesus, fuck! This is a lot of pain. Who the hell said THIS would be a good idea? I wish they were here so I could punch them in the face right now!" Then, you look in the mirror after it's done and are so happy with the results that you've forgotten that last 3 hours of horrifically annoying pain. And that's only moments later! Give it a few years and the yearning comes back. When, oh when, can I get another tattoo? People with no tats would ask, "Doesn't it hurt?" Yes, but you have forgotten just how MUCH it hurts because you see your tattoos through rosy marijuana fogged glasses from those days when you were young, carefree and your skin was tight. Then the day comes when you yet again get to lie down on a table and receive another tattoo. Although excited, once that first needle breaks the surface of your skin, you are quickly reminded of the horror. But it's too late now - second one's on its way as you clench your teeth and curse the person that encouraged you to get this one. And the cycle continues...

There you have it.

And last week, my oldest friend (who's survived both grade school, high school AND living with me in Australia), had to be induced to get her little Number Two pushed outta her. Sorry, that sounds like having a big poop, but let's all be grown-ups here, shall we? Ahem.

She had an emergency C-section with her first 3 years ago and was worried she would have to have another one. I was on the fence with this concept since I've heard so many horror stories about dead vaginas and that although a C-section REALLY MOTHERFUCKING HURTS, it was only for about 2 weeks and at least my lady bits were still in tight working order not that anyone cared, but still. Since I had my two at the same time, I haven't really ever given it much thought until now, but I think I would prefer to re-fuck-up my stomach rather than ruin a second part of my body - especially one that I hold in such high esteem.

(Random side note: I wish I had never seen The Spa of Embarrassing Illnesses)

So, I would get texts every few hours about her pain-in-the-vagina cervix dilating too slow and that she was getting more and more Oxytocin pumped into her. All of this so that she can rip open a new hole, instead of re-open the old one she already has. I mean, in a perfect world, yes, yes... we'd all have easy natural child births where we would go take a squat in the backyard and after birthin' a baby, we'd stay out there to get some weeding done with the newborn effortlessly latching on to our teet.

And thus, it's not just the actual second (or third, or...) child that is like getting a tattoo, but it's the actual birth, or more specifically - even though I can make a fairly valid analogy with the first 3 years as well.

How's your cervix? 
Not cooperating. It's only at 4 cms.
Fucking cervix. She's a bitch... no, she's a vixen. A Cervixen, to be exact!
Stop, you'll make me poop.
You'll poop anyway - right on the table. Gross.
STOP IT.
You love me.

And that's how I came up with the name of my imaginary rock band - if I knew how to sing or play an instrument other than the rice filled Alpha-Getti can. Farrah, Jen, Amy, Rebecca and Jessie have also volunteered to join my imaginary reindeer games. We would be fucking awesome... in theory.

Will there be merchandising, you ask? You bet your sweet ass there is. 

Want one? Check out my Estrogoodies. OR you leave a comment because 

I'll be giving one away! ROCK ON!

Oh yeah, and my friend has a healthy baby boy. Blardy, blar, blar...

Another vagina bites the dust.

__

({O})

I'm a Cyst'a

For as long as I can remember, I have had cysts. I'm a cyst'y bitch all over.

I have polycystic ovaries.
I have fibrocystic breasts.
I have cystic acne.
And I have pelvic lymphocysts.

For most women, they will tell you that experiencing childbirth is when you lose all dignity - with your legs in the holsters and no less than 2 people looking up close and personal at your steaming snatch. And I ain't talking about ménage à trois here, people! In my case there were 7, but who's counting...

Well, for me it was a long, long time before that.

Let's completely ignore the fact that I had 12 interns present at my first pap smear at 14, all staring intently and taking notes as the chosen student proceeded to insert the vaginal retractor IN-COR-RECT-LY. Yes, that's right. I know you're all crossing your legs right now - and so you should. It was NOT a pleasant experience. Every time I've heard the line, "This is a teaching hospital" on shows like ER or Grey's Anatomy, I have done an involuntary Kegel. Fucking students.

So, indeed, let's all forget that.

But if it wasn't from that, then it would be from the two dozen times I have had a lymphocyst bordering dangerously close to my holy grail that was so painful that I couldn't walk. Then in 2006, one impacted so badly that I had to have an emergency operation... while my then current fiancé was back in Canada for a cousin's wedding. I had to call him from my cell phone on pain killers to tell him I was in the hospital. Plus, we didn't really know anyone well enough to call to help me in the UK, so I had to look up my neighbor's phone number and get his adult son's wife (that I barely knew) to come and drive me home after the surgery. It was a humbling experience, to say the least.

Try explaining THAT one to a bunch of nosy pupils that all wanted to know why I had been off school for 4 days and am now limping. Why, Miss, why, Miss, why, why, why?

BECAUSE I JUST HAD MY MEAT CURTAINS OPERATED ON - HAPPY NOW?!

(You must be shocked to know that that was my final year teaching. Uh huh.)

So I have done everything to try to help with these cysts. I've changed my clothing. My detergent. My soap. I've lost weight. I've gained weight. I've soaked in tubs with Epsom salts. I've seen dermatologists, homeopaths, plastic surgeons, you name it. Nothing has made them occur any less frequent.

I had a doctor recently nonchalantly tell me that all I would need to do was lose weight - because the old scaring that would indicate exactly how long I've had this issue was apparently irrelevant. So that doctor could take his 'professional opinion' and go eat a dick.

Thankfully, my husband is very understanding and is so used to my occasional giant band-aid that he barely even notices now. He's explained my condition in the most perfect way:

"It's not the cave that brings the real estate down, it's the neighbors."

If I ever find myself back in the dating game for whateverthefuck reason (I like to be prepared), I would most definitely have to add that to my profile description.

What's so fun about dignity anyway?



----------------------------------------------------

This post was inspired by the TMI chatter that I just love so much over on The Twitter -
with the lovely Momofthreeunder, jlweinberg and kdwald.

~Muah~

What You All Must Think of Me!

I usually do Five Funny Fuckers on Fridays because of the whole alliteration thing and shit, but it was a pretty damn funny week over on The Twitter side of things so I'm cheating. It's my blog. Whatever. I try not to have my two online worlds collide very often, but I absolutely must share with you what people have sent me. I'm sensing a trend as to what my online friends find and think, "Oh, Lady Estrogen would LOVE that." But you know what? They're usually right. It's fantastic! Keep it coming!

~1~ 

"At Breakfast or later in the day, a Dickens Cider is the perfect pick-me-up!"

I laughed for an hour and OH MY GOD, I am totally buying one of these t-shirts!

~2~

OK. So, I guess I should mention that I first came across a crocheted vibrator cozy on Etsy and posted it on Twitter.

But this? Totally trumps it:

Those are some funny looking cocks 'n nuts, yo! 

And more importantly, are these customizable?

~3~

This was sent to me as a DM, so this confirms it - vagina photos ARE sent as DMs. Ahem.

THEY ARE ALL BEAUTIFUL!

And OK, yes, if I had one of these, I would totally be doing rude gestures to it before I ate it out. 

I mean, all. ATE IT ALL.

~4~

This is a blog post that my warped sense of humor earned me an honorary appearance in. 

Why? Because I favorited Carri's tweets about how Anxiety Disorder can suck hairy balls... all types of hairy balls. Yay!

And now I am posting how she re-posted my tweet.

Put that Post-Post-Modernism in your pipe and smmmmmoke it! 

~5~

And the pièce de résistance...

And THAT, people, is what hard work can accomplish!

So. Fucking. Phenomenal.

Do you KNOW how many websites are out there about hoes?! It's an immense Google honor!

I wonder what other words I can type in that will result in my blog appearing on the first page?

You know I will be investigating.

My Rock with a Cock

I am taking this opportunity to discuss my latest health crisis as well as pay homage to one of my oldest friends.
It was his birthday a few days ago, so the timing is almost perfect.

This guy is special because, surprisingly, we've never had sex. I think the main reasons for this was because:
A) I could snap him like a twig; it would not be pleasant, and
B) I kind of helped raise him, even though he's actually a year older than me.

I think I may have had a shortly lived case of misplaced affections towards him when I was 12, but then he went and got a perm and that pretty much helped me move on from there.

Yes. A perm.
(Sorry, but he's never going to fucking live that one down. Not ever. If he dies before me, I'll make a point of mentioning it at his funeral, because that's what true friendship really means. If I die before him, I'll still figure something out.)

And no, he's not gay.

And yes, he's a boy... or since he has a hot wife and two cool kids, rather, a man. Kinda. 

He's like my son, or perhaps my man-sister from another mister...

Or my bestie with a flat chestie...

My rock with a cock.

See where I'm going with this? OK. Hold that thought.

In other news, I recently almost died from Toxic Shock. It wasn't pretty. In fact, it was slightly terrifying with a dash of mortification. The doctor laughed at my horror, telling me it happens all the time. Not to fucking me, it doesn't! I've watched all the doctor shows, thank you. I do not shove strange foreign objects up my cootch such as light bulbs, hot dogs, carrots or baseball bats.

Wait. What?

OK. I'll re-phrase. In the last two decades, anyway, it's just been the usual boxed set: Dildos, fingers, penises and tampons... ugh... tampons. Umm, yeah.

Why are these two trains of thought related, you ask?

Well, I was speaking to him on the phone the other day, revealing these latest embarrassing details.

His immediate response: "How does that happen to you? Shouldn't it have just fallen out? I thought you had a giant vagina!"

Awesome.

Apparently, it's giant enough that I had no idea it was up there, but not giant enough that it could fall out on its own. All I knew was that I was dying from the inside. Actually, not dying. Dead. And rotting.

So, thank you, my darling, for the vote of confidence for my huge vagina. Unfortunately, she, too, has now proven to be fallible.
It was truly a sad day, indeed.

Also? Happy fucking birthday to one of only two men* that openly converse on the size and state of my vagina.

A drawing by him. Not sure what's going on there.
His creative mind is disturbing, even at the best of times.
I love him.

(*PS. For the record, the other man is not my husband. He does not discuss such things. :-)