I Heart My Little A-Holes (2 page)

Totally awesome pussycakes made by Amy Clites, Created by Chance,
www.CreatedbyChance.blogspot.com

1. I have never ever had a single desire to lick vajayjay. Until now.

2. I do believe the only proper way to eat this is to lick the frosting off first. Slowly. With a lot of tongue. And look someone in the eye while you’re doing it.

3. I mean at first I’m thinking these would be like so perfect for a lesbian party. But then I realize, nooooo, these could like totally ruin a lesbian forever. “Ummm, I’m sorry sweetie, ever since I ate that chocolate hoo-ha, yours just tastes a little off or something.”

4. Or I could be totally wrong. I’m not a lesbian so I don’t know. Maybe it’s actually the
cupcake
that’s disappointing. “Blagggh, WHAT IS THIS? Chocolate?! I was expecting that awesome vagina flavor.” Kind of like when you think you’re biting into a grape but it’s an olive. Yuck.

5. I’m sitting in Panera right now and I’ve got this picture like
really
big on my screen and there’s a table of old men sitting behind me and whispering. I’m so tempted to turn around and shout, “Hey, quit staring at my vaginas!”

6. Well, I’m usually into black girls, but I kinda want a vanilla one. Is that racist?

7. I wonder if Martha Stewart has ever whipped up a batch of these. I can only imagine how beautiful her frosted vaginas would be. “I used a mirror to look at myself and make sure I was adding just the perfect amount of food coloring to tint it a beautiful pussy pink.”

8. Mmmm, these are soooo moist.

9. WOMAN: Want to split one with me?

FRIEND: Sure, pass me a knife and I’ll give it an episiotomy.

10. Dear lady who baked these,

There better be cream in the center. Otherwise, it’s just gonna leave me unsatisfied.

11. I am so tempted to bring a batch of these to my next gynie appointment to hand out to everyone. Why thank you doctor, yes I would like my speculum warmed.

12. You know that cake for Mardis Gras that has that little plastic baby inside? I kind of think these should have that too. Holy crap, there’s a baby in my vajayjay!

13. All in favor of Channing Tatum eating one of these in slow motion, say aye!

14. Hey, if you’re not gonna eat your clit, can I have it?

I have two distinct memories of my vajayjay in childhood. Here they are.

The year was 1981 and my friend Ariel and I were sitting in third grade Math class. FYI, her name isn’t really Ariel (no one was named Ariel until 1989 when the Little Mermaid came out), but I always change my friends’ names to keep them anonymous. Especially when I’m telling a story about their vajayjay.

So we were sitting in Math class and Mrs. Lincoln was busy writing something on the chalkboard, so my friend Ariel decided this was the perfect time to teach me an important life lesson.

ARIEL: Hey, if you scoot all the way over on your chair, you can rub on your chair like this and it feels really good.

ME: Like this?

ARIEL: No, further, so you’re half on, half off.

ME: Like this?

But I didn’t really need to ask because suddenly I knew exactly what she was talking about. 8 + 8 = Oh yeahhhhh.

POCAHONTAS: What are you guys doing?

ARIEL: This.

And Ariel demonstrated to Pocahontas. And then Jasmine. And then Belle. And then Mulan. Until all the girls in Math class knew exactly how to rub their hoo-has on their chairs and get off. By the time Mrs. Lincoln turned back around, all ten girls were stealthily math-terbating. And by stealthily I mean obviously.

Can you imagine what it must have been like to turn around from the chalkboard and see ten girls all leaning to one side of their chairs rocking back and forth on their crotches trying to mask their looks of ecstasy? I mean Mrs. Lincoln probably had to stifle her laughter for the next twenty minutes until she could finally escape into the teacher’s lounge.

Anyways, you know how it is—gotta pay it forward. So I decided to teach my friend Cinderella a little sumpin’ sumpin’ she could do with her sumpin’ sumpin’.

It happened when we were at her house getting changed into our leotards for ballet class. Today’s lesson: how to stand naked in front of a mirror and pull down your labia majoras (or as I call it, the regular skin on your vagina) so they look like cow udders. FYI, I totally had to Google labia majora because I couldn’t remember what it’s called and now my eyes are scarred for life from all the pictures I saw. So yes, if you pull down your labia majoras you can make your vajayjay look like a cow udder. Of course not once you’re older and have hair there. Not that I’ve tried it, but I’m guessing.

You know what cracks me up the most about this? Can you imagine turning around to see your friend pulling down her vagina skin to make it look like cow udders? I’d be like uhhhh, yeah, we’re not friends anymore. But at eight-years-old this just solidified Cinderella’s and my friendship even more. We spent the next twenty minutes dancing around the bedroom naked and singing, “Look at me, I’m a cow! I’m a cow! Mooooooooo!” And continued to do it every week as we got ready together for ballet class. I mean does that shit ever get old?

And this is when I pray this book doesn’t sell very much and no one reads this entry.

You’d think my daughter would have discovered her orifices years ago. I mean my son was checking out his peeper as soon as his tiny hand could handle his massive package. Kidding. His dinky is as dinky as all the other babies’. But one day, look out.

Anyways, my daughter is three now and all of the sudden every time I turn around her finger is up one of her nostrils. Now I don’t care what other people think (total lie) but I do care about all the boogers she keeps handing me. Agggh, can you pleeeease be normal and eat it or wipe it on the furniture or something?!

But her newfound orifice obsession gets worse. Her nostril isn’t the only hole she’s taken an interest in lately. Yeahhh, you know what’s comin’. The other day I walked into her bedroom to find her sitting naked on the floor (better than the other places I’ve found her sitting naked—the sprinkler, her bike, her brother’s head), and she’s checking out things down yonder when we have the following conversation.

ZOEY: (totally melodramatic) I’m a little sad because there’s a hole in my tushie.

ME: You mean your vagina?

ZOEY: Yeah, my pagina.

ME: (trying to keep a straight face) Everyone has a hole there. Where would you pee from if you didn’t have that? (and do other shit we’re not going to discuss)

ZOEY: It would come out of my mouth. I’d lean over the toilet and the pee would come out.

Ummm, uhhhh, I don’t even know where to begin. Maybe we should talk about all of the things that are
right
with this conversation because all of the things that are wrong with it would take up the next 50 pages.

But seriously, how do I tell her to stop checking out her pagina? Telling her to stop picking her nose is a no-brainer. I mean basically I tell her to stop and she just hides under the covers and does it.

Whatever, if I can’t see what you’re doing and you’re not killing anyone, have a ball, kiddo.

But if I tell her to stop playing with the beaver, who knows what long-term effects it will have. Will she think her pagina is taboo? Will she be too scared to touch it one day? Will she rebel and do it all the time? Gasp, like me in Math class?!! It’s no easy task, but I need to teach her to love her pagina, just not to
love
her pagina. At least not yet. WTF, did I seriously just write that? I had no idea some the things that would come out of my mouth as a parent. But not pee pee. Thank God there’s another hole for that.

Tis the season to let your bush grow. But the other day my friend invited me over for a Girls’ Night Out in her hot tub and she invited me like five days in advance so there would be plenty of time to lawn-mow my bikini line. Usually she invites me at the last minute which means I don’t have enough time to groom “down under” (shout out to all the Australians reading this!) so I make the ladies close their eyes while I’m getting in and out of the hot tub. You think I’m kidding but I am not. I have good friends who are willing to do this for me, and I know that none of them have peeked yet because none of them have thrown up or turned to stone.

You see, basically I don’t have a bikini line. I have hair shorts. I mean they’re not like hair Bermudas or anything, but if I don’t shave it looks like I’m wearing Daisy Dukes that are made of hair. FYI, please do not write me a letter that you are so thankful you are NOT one of these people and that God/genetics gave you wonderful blonde hair in all the right places and none of the wrong places. And if you feel the need to say shit like this to me, please include your return address so I can come kick your ass. And steal your bush so I can have it surgically implanted on my hoo-ha.

Anyways, while the kiddos were napping I locked myself in the bathroom (as opposed to what? When they’re not napping and I lock myself in the bathroom?), and I lined up all of my instruments on the counter. Razor, tweezers, sticky wax sheet thingies I found once at Walgreens and have never been able to find again, an electronic device that spins really quickly and rips the hair out (nahhhh, it’s not painful if I imbibe the right mix of vodka and Oxycontin) and a lawnmower. And then I started the painstaking process of grooming my bearded clam.

About halfway through, this happened.

ME: Agggggghhhhhhhh! WTF is that?!

Holy shit, my midlife crisis was finally legit. OMG, OMG, OMG, I tried to remember the breathing techniques I once learned in baby class, but I hadn’t paid much attention because I was too busy laughing at words like vagina and anus. As I sat there in my bathroom looking down, I realized that one of my worst fears had come true. There he was. A little rat bastard standing there staring me right in the face. A gray pube. A mother F’ing curly little gray pube.

And if you’re wondering why I’d get so hung up on one measly little hair, I’ll tell you why. Because do you know how horny gray hairs are? They’re like F’ing bunnies. You go to sleep and when you wake up they’ve multiplied. I know this from the ones on my head. I fully expect to have a totally gray bush in the next two months.

But I gotta wonder, when they come in “down there,” how will they come in? Will they be haphazardly scattered throughout the field? Or will they come in on the sides in gray patches like Mitt Romney’s sideburns? Or maybe there will be one gray streak down the middle like Stacy London on
What not to Wear.