Physical Therapy

You guys know I am pretty open on here about everything. I mean, I talk about my vagina. All. The. Time.

 

And puking. And having sex. And even peeing myself.

 

But there is one thing I am still pretty hesitant to talk about. And that is pooping and farting. I’m actually blushing just typing those words. I don’t know why I am so weird about that and apparently nothing else. It would make more sense for me to be shy about some of those other things.

 

My sister J loves to talk about those two subjects. And I do for her sake. Pretty much constantly. And it doesn’t embarrass me to do so with her. But with most other people I shy away.

 

So I have been putting off on telling this story for over two years.

 

You guys probably remember me falling down the stairs and hurting my back.

 

Well, the first thing I did. After having an allergic reaction to my steroids and staying the night in the hospital. Was to go see a physical therapist.

 

I had never been to one before and had this idea in my mind of what it would be like. Based 100% on movies. Which are really the best thing to base everything on, right?

 

So, if movies taught me anything it’s that my physical therapist would be a sexy but tough woman who would help me learn to walk again. She would be firm but fair. I would be in intense pain. We would fall in love. Cue to me haltingly taking my first steps into her open arms. End film.

 

Turns out my physical therapist, J, was a very attractive lady. Who was happily married with two kids. Also, she was maybe five feet tall. For those of you that don’t remember, I am six feet one inch.

 

So I meet her and explain about how I hate people touching me. As I do the first time I meet any doctor or person that has to touch me for their job. I like to set the right tone in my relationships.

 

J takes me back to one of the therapy rooms and does an examination of my back and has me bend and stretch and do all sorts of things. Just to see what I’m about. And what I am about is that I do a lot of yoga and she said she was impressed with how flexible I am. For my height (whatever that means).

 

She has me lie down on this little bed that looks like a weightlifter’s bench. And she’s telling me what she wants to do to help me with my back and my pain and all.

 

I’m cool with it. So I tell her to go ahead.

 

She reaches under me and kind of wraps one arm around me in an awkward way. Her hand is directly beneath my spine. My arms are crossed over my chest.

 

With absolutely zero warning, she throws herself down and kind of propels herself onto me. She was like a tiny WWE wrestler trying to take me down.

 

Two things happened at once.

 

She knocked the wind out of me. And…she knocked the wind out of me.

 

I farted. So long and loudly that there could be absolutely no mistaking what had just happened.

 

Despite my extreme mortification, I also immediately started laughing. Because I am an immature child.

 

She was very mature about the whole thing and pretended to not realize what I had just done. So she stood there over me, arms crossed. Patiently waiting for me to stop.

 

But I couldn’t. This was our FIRST meeting. I had known her for all of 10 minutes. This physical therapy was not going as planned. But most things don’t.

 

After a solid 10 minutes of me laughing so hard I couldn’t speak, my eyes filled with tears and my face getting redder and redder. I finally stopped.

 

She had barely cracked a smile. I don’t know how she managed it. But once I finished she just kind of nodded and said “Shall we?” And got back to it.

 

I saw her every week for over a year and she was kind enough to never bring it up. Ever.
And I did my part by making sure that little incident was never repeated. Ever.

Tiger Balm

Back by popular demand, more stories about my privates! Yay! I feel like I will just never run out of stories of terrible things happening to them. So here goes:

 

When I was a child I learned to read at a very young age. Like, before kindergarten. My mother homeschooled my older sisters for a year or two. I don’t really remember why. All homeschoolers are either super hippies or weird religious people. And though my father is a super hippie, my mother was just an average person.

 

At any rate, I had nothing to do during the homeschooling. I was too young for school, too young to be left alone, and we were too poor for daycare. So I spent homeschooling also being homeschooled.

 

My sisters are 8 and 10 years older than myself so I have no idea what they were learning. But I learned the alphabet and then how to read and then how to tell time on an analog clock.

 

Which is amazing because I seem to have de-evolved through sheer laziness and now have to actually pay close attention when reading an analog clock.

 

So I went into kindergarten already knowing all the material. Which made for an extremely boring year of school. Plus, I was an insufferable show off and know it all. As a result, I had exactly one friend.

 

But I didn’t need friends. I had books and my little sister, J, to torment.

 

One day J and I were playing in my parents bed. I was in kindergarten so she was about three. And we were snooping through everything, as children do. When we found a little tub of something.

 

Being older and literate, J asked me what it was. The label was covered in all kinds of funny symbols that I did not recognize. And then I saw the words Tiger Balm. Well, I knew what balm was. It was a salve, like lip balm. It went on your lips.

 

This was still a few years before my chapstick addiction, which I still have today. So I handed the tub to J and told her to put some on her lips.

 

I don’t know if you guys know what Tiger Balm is. It is like an Asian version of Icy Hot or BenGay. It smells terrible (that’s because of the menthol). It is also very strong when applied to sensitive areas, like the lips of a three year old child.

 

I remember her screaming and crying in pain and then, as usual, my mother came in and found us. And I was, once again, in serious trouble for doing something mean to J. But I swear, it was an honest mistake.

 

But that isn’t the end of the story. My privates were involved, remember?

 

So earlier this year, I had a little tub of Tiger Balm that I actually never use because I have very sensitive skin and it is just too strong for me. But I also didn’t want to get rid of it because nothing I do makes any sense.

 

I keep my Diva Cup on the same shelf of my medicine cabinet as the Tiger Balm. When I got my period, I pulled the cup out of it’s adorable little bag, washed it, and then inserted it.

 

It took a few minutes for me to feel anything. But then it started feeling…weird in my vagina. Like not good weird. Bad weird. Although I suppose there is rarely any good weird if it is taking place inside your vagina.

 

And then it started tingling, again, bad tingling. It started burning. I pulled the cup out and smelled it. Yes, it was just in my vagina. I don’t care. I know what my vagina smells like. But I could distinctly smell the Tiger Balm.

 

I remembered the story with J and felt a moment of pity for her. That shit must be really bad on your lips. Because it was really bad on my vagina. Hopefully, she will feel a bit of justice with this story.

 

I limped around in pain for about 30 minutes and cursed myself for being an idiot. No amount of washing helped and I didn’t want to upset anything happening down there (vaginas have their own flora and fauna going on). And after my period was over, I put my cup back in it’s little bag and back in the cabinet.


Now, I’m not a total idiot, I had thrown away the Tiger Balm and washed the shelf where it had been.But I am at least a partial idiot because I didn’t wash the bag. And the following month, when I got my period again? You guessed it. I put the cup in and my vagina started feeling all weird again. And not the good kind of weird.

Shaved

So this one time I was in the hospital, waiting to have a heart surgery. I’m pretty sure it was the first one. To be honest, they start to blend together after enough of them.

 

The reason I think it was the first one is because I was in the hospital for about a month during that first stay. And I wasn’t allowed out of bed, at all, the entire time.

 

Every time I so much as sat up my heart rate would jump to over 180 bpm and all the machines would start beeping in a panic and the nurses would run in, sure that I was dying.

 

This means that I was using a bedpan for a month, which made me feel pretty sexy. Also, I wasn’t allowed to bathe. Or brush my teeth. And no, I wasn’t getting any sponge baths either. I was just marinating in sweat and body odor the whole time. It was gross.

 

I get that when you are on the verge of dying, having fresh breath and clean hair isn’t a priority to the hospital staff. But I felt repulsive. And I had always been obsessively diligent about cleanliness, so it was extremely frustrating. On the plus side, it almost completely broke me of my OCD.

 

But, since I was bedridden and also on loads of blood thinners, I also wasn’t allowed to shave. So, the night before my surgery, a nurse came in to shave my pubes.

 

Being me, I tried to lighten the horrifying situation.

 

I mean, her face was down in my unwashed vaginal area. I’d had a period come and go, and no bathing. I could smell myself from where MY face was.

 

Now that I think about it, I just realized this is where my vagina smell complex started.

 

So, this older lady came in with an electric shaver and I said, “I hear you’re going to give me a trim and a perm.”

 

Nothing. No smile. She barely even acknowledged me.

 

So, I tried again. “Actually, I was hoping you could do something fun down there. Maybe a mohawk or a Charlie Chaplin?”

 

Still no response from her. It’s possible she didn’t speak English. Or that I am completely unfunny.

 

She yanked the covers back, lifted my hospital gown and shaved me totally bald. When I looked down and saw it I said, “Oh, the old Bruce Willis. I dig it.” And then I winked at her.

 

And I need to tell you guys right now, that I have invented my own winky face emoticon. Because when I wink, I don’t smile, like this  😉 . Or grin, like this ;D . I kind of make this face ;V .

 

It’s really awkward.

 

She just kind of rolled her eyes at me and left the the room. Leaving me alone with my newly shaved vulva and insomnia. But that is another story.

 

Waterbed Sex

Growing up, my period was as unpredictable as a wild animal. I could go months without getting it at all. And there were a few times I would get it twice in one month. Usually it would only last a day or two. But every once in a while it would come at me with the fury of a rabid wild creature.

 

Why have I been cursed?!

 

As an adult (and now that I am at a healthy weight) it is extremely regular and mild. Except those rare occasions that it comes at me like a wild rabid creature the way it did this weekend.

 

I was sort of expecting it, but I had no idea when I went to sleep Friday night that I would wake up to a crime scene in my sheets Saturday morning. But I did. And this is why women make good serial killers. We know how to get blood out of anything.

Not shown: cramps

 

But this weekend reminded me of another time I got my period.

 

In high school, I was dating the exchange student. We had only had sex once or twice and I was NOT comfortable with discussing bodily fluids with him (and I never would be).

 

My parents had a California King size waterbed with a massive wooden headboard and canopy awning. This thing was a monstrosity and it took up my parents entire bedroom. We only owned one blanket that fit it. A beautiful green and yellow quilt that had been a wedding present to my parents.

It was like this but bigger.

 

Naturally, G and I decided to have sex on it. I had certainly never had sex on a waterbed before. And I figured my parents’ would be my only chance. Unless I went back in time and slept with a dude from the 80s.

 

G and I started kissing. He was one of the worst kissers I have ever experienced. I’ll gladly take part of the blame since he was the first person I had ever kissed myself; I doubt I was any good either. But one time he burped IN my mouth while we were kissing. It was repulsive.

 

We got naked and had sex. Again, not the worst sex I have ever had. But even I knew this was not good sex and he was the only person I had ever done it with.

The quilt I tried to ruin was pretty similar to this one

 

Sex on a waterbed was also a total pain in the ass. The water makes it own waves that tend to fight against your movements. Plus there was no mattress spring action to help us out.

 

It was like trying to swim against a rip tide in the most unsexy way possible. Maybe that was just me, though. I’d love to hear about someone else having a better experience.

 

It was when he pulled out that we saw it. There was blood everywhere. All over him, all over me. It looked like he had been stabbing me with a knife instead of with his dick.

 

Oh, the horror

 

And there was blood all over my parents’ wedding quilt. I started freaking out when I saw it. My parents were never going to get over this if I couldn’t get the blood out.

 

G got angry with me. “Why didn’t you tell me you were on your period?”

 

“I wasn’t. I mean, I didn’t know I was.”

 

But he didn’t believe me. He thought I had tricked him into having sex with me while I was on my period. Then I got all pissed off because he thought I was lying. Plus I was embarrassed about what had happened. Embarrassed that we were now having a discussion about my period.

 

But let me tell you guys something, I have a rule: If you won’t bang me during my period then you don’t get to bang me at all. If you can’t handle my bodily fluids then perhaps you would be happier with a man.


And it turns out, G was happier with a man. So there you go.

Blog Love

I think I am officially back from having my…emotional difficulties. While I was away I was nominated for multiple blogging awards. I think the lesson here is that the less I blog, the more awards I get. I’ll keep that in mind for future reference. Be patient and I will respond to all of them. It is a little overwhelming right now.

So, first, Eva from  the Tattoo Tourist nominated for a blogging award. I love her blog and her and apparently the feeling is mutual so we are in a common law blogger marriage or something. I’m not sure how all of that works. She’s better at legalities, which is what makes us such a great couple.

And now; to the questions…

1. What is the main purpose of your blog?

I used to think this blog was just a means to entertain myself and offset the sadfest that my other blog tends to be. But now I am seeing the value of sharing these stories as well. It sneakily somehow became one of the most fullfilling things in my life.

2. What are your three favorite blogs?

This is hard and I don’t like leaving people out. I like A LOT of blogs. I read a lot of blogs (though I have been horribly slacking lately). So, instead I will share my favorite genital related blogs because I am in a vagina-y mood (when am I not, right?). These are all NSFW.

 

Vagina Pagina: I know it’s LiveJournal and the formatting annoys the shit out of me. But I have laughed until I cried reading it. Top favs of mine to read are: Stained Undies. And Vagina Foods. Also their Vulvapedia is genius. If you haven’t guessed it is very very graphic.

 

Sexis: I’m sure all of you have read this because it is The Bloggess and she is my hero. But this sex column was the first thing I ever read by her. And this article is the first one I ever read. And I fell in love instantly. I also love her sex quizzes.

 

OhJoySexToy: This is a gorgeously drawn comic blog that does reviews of sex toys. They are funny, cute, wonderfully candid, open minded and accepting. It is basically everything I love in the world in one place. Their reviews are my favorite thing about the site. But they have some great Sex ed comics too. This one on Consent is a favorite for me to direct my partners to.

3. What is the weirdest/most controversial blog post you have written?

I don’t really feel like anything I write is that weird. I mean, it’s all just me. I think my ‘weirdest’ one was this one, about dyeing my armpit and pubic hairs. But my favorite one so far was the vagina fingering story. I don’t know, what do you guys think is the weirdest one?

4. Are you writing a book or screenplay? If so what is it about and will you try to publish it?

I have written several books (all terrible) and at least a novel’s worth of short stories. Plus poetry and my other blog. I am currently working on a novel right now that I am very pleased with. It is about monsters and childhood and growing up in an abusive home. It is a horror type of story. I would be happier than I can express to get it published someday.

5. Eggnog, yes or no? Followed by rum or brandy?

I fucking hate milk and eggnog. It repulses me. I’ve never had brandy. Rum is my deal! My favorite drink right now is Kraken rum (originally bought for the tentacled octopus on the label) with coke and a splash of Disaronno amaretto. It tastes like a Dr. Pepper and makes me feel so relaxed.

6. How do you feel about questionnaires?

I feel like nobody cares about my answers and I am pretty conceited to think anyone even reads this shit. But I love reading everyone else’s because I am endlessly fascinated by other people. Also, I am totally creepy and like peeping into your lives.

7. Will you blog forever or is there a cutoff point? If so, why?

Unless I become immortal, I will definitely stop blogging someday. However, if I can live forever I will need to make it a point to keep being dumb so I can entertain all of you forever. But I have no intentions of stopping any time soon.

8. Have any of your blog readers sent you something in the mail? And if so what?

Leah sent me three lovely, handmade hats. And I sent her three handmade bracelets. Also, I got uncountable goat accoutrement for Aussa from bloggers to send to her. And Debbie painted me a picture, but she gave it to me in person. But you guys should still know about it, because she is like some kind of wizard who is good at everything. If I missed anyone please tell me so I can brag about your awesomeness!

9. Boxers or briefs?

This depends on a lot of different factors. At work I wear men’s briefs because they are extra comfy and my job can be very physical. At home I wear women’s bikinis or thongs depending on my day and outfit. At night I wear men’s boxer briefs around the house or to bed sometimes. My favorite two pairs are: purple with glow in the dark skulls and lime green and covered with insects. They are fucking adorable. And I want more cutesy underwears like them.

10. Secret nicknames or pet names.

Um…None are secret. I get called a lot of things. Amazon. Wonder Woman. The Terminator (both for the way I dump men and the way I fire them at work). I get called a robot a lot (though that isn’t really a nickname). My favorite is Amazon Firing Machine.

 

I know I am supposed to do more with this thing, but I am not going to. Sorry, rules. Thanks again for the nomination!

Steak Knives

I am sure all of you guys enjoy these stories. But, you may say, these stories are from years ago. What have you done to humiliate yourself lately? How can you say you are an idiot if you have learned your lesson? Well, number one: You are very presumptuous. Two: I am definitely still an idiot. And three: This story happened Friday night.

 

Being that it was a Friday night, I was out with my brother. (Where else would I be? A date? Ha!) We decided to go out to eat at the restaurant where I fell down a flight of stairs.  This restaurant is so fancy. It is the kind of place people go to dress up and celebrate milestones.

Actual balcony of the place.

Except my brother and I usually show up in shorts, flip flops, and dumpster t-shirts. Dumpster t-shirts are shirts my brother and I dig out of a dumpster near his house. It is almost solely the only thing I wear when I am not at work. And they are amazing.

 

But this restaurant does not treat us like the hobos we generally look like. And we always ask to sit outside. My brother, T, is loud as fuck and we generally discuss things that are inappropriate for polite society.

This is basically how we dress.

Friday night we were sitting out on the balcony. He doesn’t follow my blog so I was talking about my vagina post. Right before I said the word “vagina” our waiter walked up and I immediately stopped talking. He was new and I didn’t want to offend him.

 

But he seemed offended that I had stopped my conversation. So he dared me to continue my story. I started talking about vaginas again. The waiter stopped smiling and whipped his head around him, paranoid that someone else would hear. That’ll teach him to dare me to talk.

 

I ordered a steak and they brought me out a very fancy and sharp steak knife. It was a JA Henckels, which is the same brand I use at home. I can’t believe anyone trusts me with knives. Even myself, sometimes.

Look at these sharp little bastards.

When the steak came, the waiter decided to wait to make sure my steak was cooked properly. I hate having an audience when I am eating. I wish they would just walk away and come back or something.

 

In fact, I hate it even more when the manager comes over and asks how my meal was. You know what? If it was bad, you would already know. Let me eat in peace!

 

I cut a piece of meat, took a bite, and set my knife down on the side of my plate. What happened next was a series of events I could not possibly have predicted would happen.  Despite my ability to destroy everything.

 

I guess I put the knife too close to the edge of the table. It slipped off the table and clattered onto the balcony floor. Before I could even begin to reach for it, it slid between the wrought iron fence railings and onto the awning below us.

 

I breathed a sigh of relief. Sure, it was out of my reach. But at least it was on the awning and hadn’t hurt anyone. In fact, it was probably for the best that it was out of my reach.

 

And then, in slow motion, I watched in helpless horror as it slid off the awning and down into the busy parking lot below. Where we were seated over the entrance to this fancy and popular restaurant. On a Friday night.

20141010_185235

Here is the whole set up. The table edge, the balcony, the awning, the parking lot below. And of course my sexy, sexy knee.

I didn’t even think to call out to warn the people below. I just sat there, struck dumb at the improbability of the whole thing.

 

Thankfully, it landed harmlessly on the asphalt. As soon as I saw I wasn’t going to inadvertently murder someone I began to laugh. I still had a piece of steak in my mouth, I had forgotten it was there in my moment of suspense. Now I was laughing so hard, I couldn’t chew it.

 

I could not stop laughing through the rest of our meal.

 

As we were leaving, I approached the manager. “Hello.” I said innocently.

 

He looked at me and squinted. “Why do I know you?”

 

“I fell down your stairs last year.” I explained.

 

“Oh, that’s right. How are you?” He eyed me up and down, looking for signs of my ailing back.

 

“Well, I feel fine but I just dropped a steak knife off your balcony so I am pretty sure I am going to be banned from here at some point.”

 

He laughed. “But nobody was hurt. So it’s okay.”


I walked out to the parking lot and looked up at where I had been sitting. I learned an important lesson. I should not be trusted near ledges. And I should never sit over the entrance of that building ever again.

That “V” Word

I can’t believe how long it has been since I have written a post about my vagina. Not to worry, I am not out of vagina stories. Here’s one now:

 

You guys may recall that I had my Essure procedure done last May. That was a crazy hectic time in my life that involved court hearings and being homeless for 4 months (which is another story I haven’t told but will get to eventually).

Two of these are in my Fallopian tubes.

Basically, the one thing I really needed was some time off (and a place to live and money and not having a shitty abusive ex stalking me). I went to my boss. He only vaguely knew any of the anything that was happening in my life.

 

I mentioned that I was having the Essure procedure and would need a few days off for recovery. His response was that I was going to regret it. And that if I didn’t want to have kids then I just shouldn’t have sex. Like, ever, I guess.

Sperms on billboards. Sexy stuff.

Naturally we agreed to disagree and he said I could have the time off. Like I said, I tend to not get too involved with personal discussions.

 

A few days before the procedure I went into his office. We were discussing some sensitive work related things, so I closed the door to his office. Per my usual.

 

Once we had wrapped up the work talk I reminded him that I would be out the following week for my procedure.

 

I should remind you all that I am the only woman at my office. And everyone tends to tiptoe around me depending on the subject matter. Especially ‘gross lady body things.’ Because women’s bodies are apparently repulsive to some men.

My boss had forgotten I was going to be out so he entered in my vacation time. And then he asked the question:

 

“So, where do they go in for this procedure?”

 

I looked at him for a few beats. I was really confused. I said “Um…Well… my vagina?” I didn’t know how else to say it.

 

My boss freaked out when I said vagina. He began stuttering. “Oh! I am so sorry! I didn’t mean… I just thought..”

 

So then I asked the natural question. “Where did you think they went in?”

 

“I don’t know. Your neck?” He had his hands up as if to ward off the dreaded ‘v word.’

 

Now I was even more confused. “My neck? How could they go in through my neck? I know you know how female anatomy works. You have a wife and four daughters.”

“Tee of Life” shirt. This is what happens when you look up necks and vaginas. How weird am I for kind of wanting this?

He jumped up out of his chair. “I forgot you were having this surgery. I thought it was for your shoulder or something.”

 

“Well, it isn’t.  It’s for my vagina.” I couldn’t believe how many times I was saying vagina to my boss.

 

And neither could he. He practically ran to open his door so we weren’t alone, with the door shut, talking about my vagina.

 

He then told me, “Please get out of my office. I can’t even look at you right now. You could have said it was personal or something.”

 

“It isn’t personal. Half the population of the world has a vagina. I’m not embarrassed of it. You asked a question and I answered it.”

 

“Please don’t in the future.”

 

I left his office and went into mine. I didn’t even bother to close the door before I laughed and laughed until I couldn’t breathe and my stomach hurt. Sorry to all the men out there that can’t handle vaginas.

 

We have to see your penises all the time. And see commercials on TV with our parents for drugs to help you guys get erections. And get unwanted dick pics. And see teenage boys draw penises on EVERYTHING. And you can’t handle me saying the word vagina.

20140617_200931

Except this. I found this at a local bar and whoever drew it needs to come forward so I can buy them a fucking drink.

A few minutes later I was telling this story to another co-worker so we could laugh about it when my boss walked up. He put his hand over his eyes so he didn’t have to look at me.

Mustn’t make eye contact with vagina woman!

“You know,” I said. “I used the medical term for that body part. And I almost didn’t. I don’t know what the issue is here. It would be like me saying my phalanges or my gluteus maximus. It’s work appropriate.”

 

I still stand by that. I only told a few work people about this story. People that can handle knowing that I actually have a vagina.


We still bring it up to my boss sometimes to make fun of him. And whenever I tell him I have a doctor’s appointment for any reason, he stops me from giving him any details about it. He apparently doesn’t want to hear about my vagina as much as you guys do.