Plight of Pillsbury

****WARNING: EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT. GO NO FURTHER IF YOU ARE A PRUDE, DEVOID OF HUMOUR OR HAPPEN TO BE RELATED TO ME.*****

Dear menfolk everywhere,

Being a heterosexual male, I know you worship at the altar of the pink petaled blossom of love, but I fear you don't fully understand just how complicated a woman's love machine really is.

My vagina is here to help.

We're here (me and my cooter are rather inseparable) to explain the mysteries of the va-jay-jay and why sometimes it's best left to leave the lid closed on your favorite love box.

I realize many of you only know about the enigma of a woman's sacred spot through the fuzzy recollections of long ago sex-ed classes where an awkward teacher once tried to explain the instruction manual of vaginal science while wrestling a condom on a banana and telling little Jimmy to get his hands out of his pants.

Some of you may have furthered your education in vaginal studies by picking up how-to magazines at the local corner store and studied the pictures intently when you thought you were alone.

But I'm here to tell you it doesn't matter how often you studied those diagrams and drooled over those pictures, we know you didn't read the articles. We understand you were distracted by thoughts of all the fun you and your future va-jay-jay may find together.

I'm here to lift the veil of secrecy that we women keep shrouded for your own protection. I'm here to help you and wives everywhere by explaining why the candy store sometimes closes its doors and shuts down business for service repairs.

You see, there are times a woman's vagina turns into a snarling angry beast. And no, I'm not talking about when the circus comes to town.

I'm talking about something much more sinister.

I'm here to tell you about the Plight Of Pillsbury. Better known as crotch rot.  This is officially diagnosed as a yeast infection but women everywhere know better.

I know, I know, it's an unpleasant subject and your swizzle stick of love just shriveled into a tiny twig at the mere thought, but as a woman it's my duty to explain to you why women everywhere are snarling at their mates and letting the hedges go untrimmed and begging to be left alone as they munch on chocolate and read trashy romance novels while shooting you death looks if you so much as breathe on her.

I know it doesn't seem fair when you have a love sausage just waiting for some muff love, but I'm here to explain why it's in your best interest to just hand over the ice cream container and a spoon rather than risk permanent damage to your manhood by poking at our nest.

You see, every now and then, for a variety of reasons a hoard of angry beavers comes and attacks a woman's cooter. It's known as beaver fever and it's vicious. Imagine the gnashing of angry little beaver teeth tearing at your man bits and you may have a better idea of what we women occasionally have to deal with all in the name of womanhood.

It's itchy, it burns and it kills any sexual desire we may hold for our loving partners. Crotch rot kills cooter love.

There isn't much a man can do for his friendly neighbourhood vagina during this time other than to be sensitive to the fact there is unwanted bread in the shed and perhaps go to the local pharmacy to pick up some ointment (and now is not the time to pinch pennies and buy the cheap stuff) to lovingly be snatched out of his hands as his beloved partner tries to fix her snatch.

We women know how much our favorite one-eyed snakes like to play in our grass, but boys, when there is yeast in our beast the last thing we want to do is listen to you men whine about how you aren't getting any and how it was just last week the circus was in town.

You aren't the only ones suffering. While you are going through a dry spell, our cooters are driving us crazy with mold in the folds and it's all we can do to keep from tearing your faces off when you dare ask if we're open for business yet.

Yes, we acknowledge it is unfortunate that Pillsbury is hampering our dreams of mattress dancing with our loved ones, but it is a small price we women occasionally have to pay for the privilege of possessing the lotus flower of love.

Understandably having one's pink bits being descended on by yeast gone astray is not fun for anyone. But men, until you have a vagina that has been stretched like a rubber band as your child tries to claw it's way to freedom, subsequently stitched back together and then have to suffer the indignities of the monthly visit from Aunt Flo, you need to learn to keep your damn yap shut and not remind us we have a mouth we can use while our cooch is closed.

Lest we remind you our mouths contain teeth. Teeth we are just itching to chomp on something like a rabid raccoon so that you too may feel the angry burn of crotch rot.

I'm here to remind you it doesn't matter how much wine you ply us with while we fight the sourdough, there will be no cake for anyone as our cooters hold us hostage with itchy reminders of our femininity and we are forced to fight the fungus.

So menfolk near and far, my vagina would like you all to know that women everywhere are working our hardest to get the situation under control and resume business operations as normal but in the mean time, it would all be in your best penile interest if you took this unwanted vacation from sexy times to celebrate the unique condition of a woman's body and thank your God, the universe or the dude next door that you weren't saddled with a bearded clam.

With patience and understanding (and perhaps a back massage free from any strings), it won't be long before the lid is lifted off your favorite box once more and romance is restored.

Your local vagina will thank you for it.

Signed,

My Vagina

Man-Child

My daughter packed her belongings and ran off to spend this past weekend with a gaggle of preteen girls at a neighbour's house, leaving her brother Frac and me eyeing one another and wondering just how in blue blazes we were going to survive the weekend without being subjected to Fric's endless requests to watch High School Musical over and over again.

Turns out, Frac and I managed just fine. It was dicey for a few hours on Saturday night when I lost the coin toss and was out-voted on the twitter boards and had to pony up and put my big girl panties on to sit through my 11 year old's choice of movie: Paul Blart, Mall Cop.

Short of wanting to stick a straw through my ear and stab my brain repeatedly, it wasn't completely unbearable. It's amazing what copious amounts of buttered popcorn and chocolate can get a mother through. Even the most heinous pubescent comedies are doable when amped up on a sugar high.

Still, there are only so many stupid cartoons and repeated viewings of Star Wars, episodes 1 through 100 that a mother can take before slowly losing her mind.

When it was becoming clear that I was on the verge of turning into a drooling, catatonic shell of my former self after having yet another argument over who was cooler: Chewbacca vs. Darth Vader (I'm totally going for Chewy cuz he's hot in a furry kinda way) I decided to call in some reinforcements and Frac and I invited one of his friends over so that I could hide in my bedroom with my laptop as my son killed yet another round of zombies on some video game or another.

The problem with the friend my son chose to have over is I don't particularly like this boy. He's slightly older than my son at 13 years of age and he is what I call a man-child. He's sporting more facial fur on his upper lip and chin than my husband has on his entire body. Man-child boy disturbs me. 

He's a nice enough kid, with good manners and he always calls me Mrs. Miller even though I keep telling him to call me Tanis. He eats with his mouth closed, manages to pee in the toilet and not on it and always tidies up after himself.

He's a good boy from a broken home. A good boy who likes my boobs. A good boy who lives alone with his dad and finds my laundry fascinating. A good boy who likes to comment on my delicates hanging up to dry and tell me how much he likes pink lace.

Generally said as he is staring at my boobs.

Man-child creeps me out even though he is harmless, short and well mannered.

Still, my son likes him and the two of them play well together and never get into any trouble so I generally put on three sports bras to flatten my McGuffies and the baggiest sweat shirt I own to help deter his roving perverted stare and try to stay out of his aim of sight. 

Which, ironically, is eye level with my breasticles.

Yesterday afternoon, the three of us were sitting in the living room, embroiled in rousing game of Risk where I was whooping their collective asses and teaching them that a woman can rule the world when the subject of siblings and adoption came up.

Man-child knows all about BamBam and our family's desire to increase in size and was naturally curious as to how the process was going. Frac and I answered his polite questions with very polite answers and we compared horror stories about our own collective siblings. 

As I sat and listened to the two boys swap tales of the dark side and how they are surviving the torments of sibling torture, Man-child looked up at me (after staring at my boobs first like the good little pervert he is) and asked why Boo and I don't just have a baby instead of fighting tooth and nail to adopt one.

I was about to launch into a long-ish lecture about how Boo and I want to be able to give a handicapped child a home and how there are so many children in the world that needed parents when Frac piped up and said, "Mom and Dad can't make babies any more."

That put a cork in my mouth fast enough. Let's just go with that, I thought to myself as I looked at Frac and nodded my agreement. 

"What do you mean you can't make babies any more?" the Man-child puzzled.

Oh shit. How badly would his parents beat me if I embarked on a neighbourhood friendly conversation of sex-education with their son, I wondered as I stumbled for words and took a big swig of my water bottle while wishing for something stronger.

Frac, however, stepped in once again to save me from embarrassing him by using words like penis, vagina, sperm, fertilize and uterus by quickly announcing his mom and dad had been fixed.

"Fixed?" the Man-child queried, clearly not comprehending what Frac was talking about. Great, don't these parents teach their kids anything? I thought to myself as I quickly tried to think of a way to explain fixing that wouldn't have me being beaten by his parents or shaming my son with any biological talk.

Frac however, was unworried by any such boundaries and piped up, "You know, fixed. They went to the doctor and he fiddled with their plumbing so they can't make babies anymore."

As I laughed at my son referring to my husband's vas deferens as plumbing, the light behind the Man-child's eyes lit up with comprehension.

"Oh, you mean like when my dad took our dog to the veterinarian so there would be no puppies."

"Exactly," I breathed with relief and tried to turn the boys attention back to the board game and ego whooping they were enduring.

"Ya," Frac snickered as he rolled the dice, "Mom and Dad were fixed. Doggie-neutered," he giggled.

"Dude, I am no dog. And if I was, I'd have been spayed," I haughtily informed him.

Frac cackled with glee at this thought as if it were the funniest thing on the planet when the Man-child piped up, "It's okay Mrs. Miller. My dad calls my mom a bitch all the time. You're in good company."

I was swallowing my water when he said it and it went down the wrong pipe so I sat there hacking as Frac laughed like a hyena and I fought to catch my breath.

"Besides," the Man-child continued, "my dad wouldn't think you are a bitch. You never act like you are in heat like he says my mom does."

With that the board game ended. Man-child had officially won even if he didn't know it.

I Have Way Too Much Time On My Hands

I wasn't going to say anything. I was going to happily ignore the fact that I was nominated for Best Canadian Blog in the 2009 Bloggies.

It was enough just to be nominated. I'd take that honour and hold it near and dear to my heart and let the votes fall as they may. I would just celebrate my nomination and rejoice alongside all the other candidates. I would set the example for maturity and class while being up for a blog award.

I, for once, would not make my husband cringe with embarrassment when he opened his laptop at night and read my blog. I would make him proud.

Then I saw this:

You mess with the bull, Mr. Lady, you will get the horn.

I know, I know. A mature, responsible, classy lady would read the blog post, possibly sigh at the obvious lack of maturity being exemplified by another blogger and then move on with her head held high.

But have you met me? Class isn't exactly my strong suit. And let's not even examine how mature and responsible I am. The government tried that once and the therapist is still in shock.  I am the Redneck Mommy for a reason yo. Reasons that exclude all things classy and may include being known for shoving twizzlers up her nose to make her children laugh.

I could take the high road and let Shannon wallow in the mud all by herself. That would be the right thing to do, the angelic voice of reason whispers in my ear.

I could simply laugh and let her pander for votes and try and steal my title as the reigning queen of Canadian Bloggers away from me.

I could.

But I won't.

Because that annoying little angelic voice of reason is currently being smacked down by the much more powerful little demonic voice that likes to jump on my shoulder and prod me with her devil horns.

If Mr. Lady wants a blog smack down, who am I to ignore that? 

Let the jello wrestling commence.

In the eye of the tiger...

Who doesn't enjoy a little female boxing match every now and then? Especially while wearing bikinis. Sure Mr. Lady may have to pad her bikini top and wax that upper moustache thing she has got going on, but it'll still be hot. I promise.

While I've got her in a headlock, let me point out to you that she is a fraud. She is no lady Canadian. She is an American. Sure she may reside in our beautiful country. But she is from the STATES. She is an American posing as a Canadian while the Canadian government keeps a watchful eye on her because of her tendency to traffic Mexican dildos into our country.

Trust a Yank to try and wrest away the title for Best Canadian Blog from rightful CANADIANS.

So peoples, be warned of this fraudulent activity. Sure she's cute (after all, she is my doppleganger) and she may have a clever little blog that will have you howling in laughter and possibly peeing in your pants a little (you try squeezing out three ten pound watermelon sized babies and see how intact your bladder is,) but ask yourself, is that really reason enough to vote for such a poseur?

All right, it is. Mr. Lady's blog rocks.

But I have one two things that our American friend in sheep's clothing does not.

Canadian citizenship and nipple rings.

Consider that as you cast your vote in the 2009 Bloggies, dear Internets.

This message brought to you by the winner of the 2008 Bloggies Best Canadian Blog. 

My husband will be so proud.

So wander over to the website and go check out all the candidates. There are some fantastic blogs up for awards and I'm proud to be included amongst them. Vote, or don't (I mean, this is just a blog award, not the freaking Nobel Peace Prize or anything,) but watch out for a certain hairy little American living in Canada who keeps trying to sell you a purple passion penis.

She's trouble. Especially when she's drunk and trying to stick her tongue down your throat.

This concludes today's public service announcement.

You are welcome.

***A big round of applause for my evil accomplice, my Manatee, for without him, I'd be stuck trying to actually trying to write a post instead of distracting y'all with pretty pictures.***