A Recalcitrant Wife and Mother Tells All

Tag: vagina (Page 2 of 2)

I’m in the Powder Room.

Looking for me?

Well, I’m In The Powder Room today, and probably will be all day. All that Halloween candy is taking its toll, if youknowwhatImean.

Read Me In the Powder Room!

Please visit me there. Those crazy broads actually pay me to write stuff and they’ll think they’re getting a good ROI if people other than my parents read it.

But come on back here tomorrow and we’ll dish. Did you see Modern Family last night? Frickin’ brilliant. “The gift of the Vagi.” OMG.



Sweaty Beeyotch

This post was originally published on 9/14/2008, but the timing felt right to dust it off and air it out. Hope you enjoy!

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Me: “It’s 8:15 (AM).  Where are you?  Am I waiting in the wrong place?”

We were going to meet halfway between our houses and drive together.

Laura: “No, I’m on my way.  I’ll be a few minutes late.  We’ll make it though…we just have to be there 20 minutes before the class starts.   Did you bring a towel and a mat?”

Me: “What?  No!  I didn’t know I was supposed to do that.  DAMMIT!  They are totally not going to let me through the door.”

Laura: “Relax, Debbie Downer…wah-wah-waaaaaah (she injects the Debbie Downer trombone sound from the SNL skit).  It will be fine.  I’m throwing the minivan into turbo drive….I’m working the spoiler.  It helps.  People move out of the way when they see a minivan with a spoiler.”

OK.  Exhale.  We’ll make it.  This will be an adventure. Iris and Laura’s Most Excellent Sweaty Yoga Adventure.

So I waited.  And I waited.  And I waited.  And no Laura.  She was more than a few minutes late, which she says is so unlike her, but I find that hard to believe.  Laura and I are one and the same.  And I am never on-time.

During our ass-hauling over there we giggled about how sexy we would be coming home to our husbands all sweaty and stinky with our chakras aligned and pulsating.  Then Laura strategized out loud about not wanting to position her mat downwind from me, given my recent battle with prescription-drug induced flatulence.

Well, of course, it was further away than we realized, even with my masterful knowledge of the suburban back roads and short cuts.  We squealed into the parking lot of Bikram Yoga at 8:55 AM….five minutes before the start of class.  This was when Laura got a whiff of me and said, “Oh, did I tell you you’re not supposed to wear lotion or perfume?”  Ehh, noooooo.  I had on both.  And some really pungent Aveda hair stuff that is supposed to tame my white girl afro.  Yeah, there is no way they are letting me in.

But my fears were quelled at once when I saw the place from the outside.  The three cute awnings above the three windows read: “It’s”… “Hot” … “Stuff.”  Perfect.  I like this place already.  We were both pretty intimidated about doing “Sweaty Yoga” for the first time, but SO looking forward to it.  Hailed as the hottest new workout, literally, you basically do 26 poses of yoga in a heated room for 90 minutes. Supposedly, it is designed for all ages and all levels.  It increases flexibility and burns shit-loads of calories at the same time (up to 600 of ’em, dang!).  “The ideal complete workout.”  And even though we were both terrified about our vaginas not cooperating with the inverted poses and making all kinds of inappropriate noises, what with each of us birthing three ginormous babies a piece, we were gonna give it a shot… a hot, swampy, fog-horn sounding shot.

We watched a really normal looking guy walk in ahead of us with just a towel, no mat, and flip flops.  We agreed that he didn’t look very intimidating.  Maybe this wouldn’t be so scary after all. And look, there is a quote on the pamphlets by the door:

“Never too bad,
never too late,
never too sick,
never too old
to start from scratch again”
-Bikram Choudhury

OK.  Cool.  “Never too late.” This place is going to be awesome.  Deep breath.  Maybe they’ll cut us a break about being a little late, you know, just for good will.  Yogis are supposed to be so balanced and flexible. I bet they’ll be really nice.  Or maybe they’ll look at us and not be able to tell it is our first time there and not stress about how late we are. This will be ok.  Another deep breath.  No turning back.  Let’s do this!  Purposely, with confidence and enthusiasm, we pulled open the door.

And this is when we came face to face with HER….the Bikram Yoga Nazi.

“Don’t tell me this is your first class,” she spat in her heavy Eastern-European accent. “You’re LATE.  You are supposed to be here 20 mintues early for your first class.  I cannot possibly take care of you if you are not on time.”

Surrounding the Nazi in the reception area were about 20 very smug looking veteran Bikram Yoga enthusiasts in perfectly coordinated exercise ensembles drinking water from aluminum bottles and getting their well toned limbs and silicone boobs into the zone. Gawd, a public bitch slapping.  I hadn’t felt this unwelcome anywhere since the time I showed up at an AA meeting wearing my boyfriend’s Wheel of Fortune-style “Sometimes Alcohol IS the Answer” T-Shirt.

Absolutely SHOCKED by this kind of full-frontal confrontation so early in the morning, Laura and I both immediately assumed the “deer in the headlights” position. “Ummmm….Ooooo-Kay.  Well, can we have a schedule or something so we know when the next class is?”

“Fine,” she seethed, and practically threw two schedules into our stunned faces.  We turned on our heels and slunk out the door with our chins to our chests.  After the door hit us in the asses on our way out, we turned and faced each other and burst into the most delicious belly laugh we had shared since Palin’s nomination. “Wow, that is not at all what I was expecting.  Come on.  Let’s go get some Krispy Kremes or maybe some pork rinds.  And a drink.  Is it too early for tequila?”  I can’t remember who said that… I think I have post traumatic stress disorder.

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Epilogue: We never went back to that place. I took up running instead. Then quit. But now I’m feeling like a slug and need to start exercising again. And one of my friends just started doing yoga (at a different place than the one described above), so I’ve been thinking about joining her there. And that reminded me of this story. The end.

Happy Monday!


© Copyright 2008 and 2011, The Bearded Iris.

ApocaLIPS: my take on the latest plastic surgery trend.

Truly, I’m not obsessed with my vagina, all evidence to the contrary. But just when I thought I knew everything there was to know about my anatomy, I discover that there is a whole (hole) ‘nother world of muffin maintenance that I know nothing about. Yinz are never gonna believe this. Did you know there is a new thing called the Wonder Woman Makeover™? No kidding. It is not what you think, though. If you go to a plastic surgeon and ask for a Wonder Woman, you will not walk out looking like Lynda Carter.

In fact, you probably won’t be able to walk at all for a while.  ‘Cause get this: the Wonder Woman Makeover™ is a makeover for your goodie basket! And by goodie basket, I mean ALL the fun parts immediately above and below where you hang your Lasso of Truth. And by Makeover, I don’t mean makeup and a fashion update, although that is always nice.  No, we are talking Nip/Tuck, people. Apparently you can get your tuna noodle casserole tightened back up as if you never even popped out a puppy or two. But why? Read on.

Let’s talk specifics.  Here is the basic definition of the Wonder Woman Makeover™: multiple consecutive surgeries that include laser vaginal rejuvenation, laser reduction labiaplasty, liposculpturing with Brazilian Butt Augmentation, and breast augmentation. “Huh,” you say?  Let me say it in American for ya, honey: this is a muffin-mincing, rear-raising, cellulite-sucking, boob-building smorgasbord.  Everything from your pits to your knees will be made “good as new” with this dealio.  Just don’t expect it to be covered by health insurance…this kind of thing is rarely deemed medically necessary. Of course, if men requested this sort of work, doctors would be offering it at the drive-thru window, with nary a co-pay, but that is a different story.

Now, for my female readers who are either not mothers or who have had the benefit of a C-Section and are still as tight as a drum down yonder, you might be wondering, what’s all this emphasis on vaginal rejuvenation? I can answer this best with a Haiku:

My babies were big,

and now so is my cooter.

Is it in yet, Hon?

Don’t get me wrong. This is not about my husband. Even if sex with me is like tossing a baseball bat into the garage, The Gatekeeper is usually just grateful that he’s getting a chance to put the recreational equipment away once in a while, if you know what I mean. But you know men… they could stick it into a warm apple pie and still get their rocks off. Women’s needs are a bit more, uh, specific.

A study conducted by the famous Masters and Johnson research team revealed that sexual pleasure is heightened by an increase in friction. Well, that can be a bit of a problem for us natural Wonder Women. Once you’ve pushed out a baby or two the old fashioned way, sex might feel more like a Teflon-coated Olympic luge event than squeezing a camel through the eye of a needle.

According to the surgeons who specialize in it, Laser Vaginal Rejuvenation® (LVR®) enhances vaginal muscle tone, strength, and control. It decreases the internal and external vaginal diameters as well as builds up and strengthens the perineal body (the area immediately outside the vagina and above the anus). Well, isn’t that nice. So something like this could help me stop peeing when I laugh? Hmmm. Very interesting. Go on.

Yes, vaginal rejuvenation can improve bodily functions. But for some women, going this route is purely an aesthetic thing. They simply want a pretty one. Well, excuse me for saying, but that sounds a little oxymoronic to me. Like Jumbo Shrimp. Nondairy Creamer. Holy War. Wireless Cable. The Patriot Act. Then again, I’m a married old hag and not out there trolling for fresh meat. If I was dating, you better believe I’d use every trick in the book to make my fishing tackle more attractive, including waxinga-hole bleaching, and vajazzling. Whatever it takes, I say.

Having never spent a lot of time gazing longingly at this part of my own body, I wasn’t quite sure what constitutes a “pretty one.” But God Bless America… lookie what I found online. Thank you Al Gore for inventing the Internet.

Ladies, feel free to print this diagram out and use it as a teaching tool for those men in your life who don’t quite grasp the traffic patterns down there. Never pleasant. Anyhooo, this diagram was a real eye opener for me, because I honestly thought a normal healthy 41 year old post partum poonanie was supposed to look like this:

And in certain light, like this:

Hey, don’t judge. Remember, I’ve pushed three, count them THREE, very large pumpkins out of my lady garden. And I had an episiotomy with the first one that somewhat resembled the gutting of a fish. Between that wreckage, the hormone induced facial hair, and the vericose veins, I’m starting to wonder if God designed the female body to self-destruct after childbirth so we wouldn’t be distracted by things like flirting and sex and could therefore focus all our energies on caring for our spawn. How depressing is that?! And you wonder why I drink.

So the good news is this: we have choices today! But before going under the knife, I’m just suggesting you consider all the options. How about asking HIM to get a penis enlargement instead? Why not? THAT is probably covered by insurance. Or, if you are self conscious about the fact that your knockers hang to your knees and your stomach looks like a Shar-Pei, then do what I do: dim the lights and buy some industrial strength lingerie! You’ll save your dignity AND electricity! Win-win!

And of course, there is always the old fashioned way of getting your mojo back: exercise! (Or so I’ve been told.) But I do know you can tighten up your tingly parts over time with a regular Kegel routine. It won’t give you a J-Lo booty or restore your milk bags to their former glory, but let’s just focus on one failing body part at a time here.

Knowledge is power, ladies. But so is a healthy body image. Remember: the best accessory any gal can own is confidence! No matter what route you choose: love yourself and others will too. And if they don’t, fuck ’em. Their loss. Because you are fabulous just the way you are.

with all my heart and extra-large lady bits,


© Copyright 2011, The Bearded Iris.

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