Taco Tales

This morning, in a typical burst of self-pity,  I wrote the following for my Facebook status update:

I'm attempting to write something funny that doesn't involve my kids and I've got nothing. This depresses me and makes me question my life choices.

Later that day, my mom called, and said, "Hi honey, it's Mom. I think you should write about pubic hair." 

How can you pass that up?   

I think I will go one step further and write about lady parts in general, because really, who wants to be employed? 

You've been warned, readers.  

Part The First: Grooming

My mother was one of those damned dirty hippies, and she never taught me that most people trim their business. I really had no idea. 

I figured that some people were just lucky, and others...well, they wore boy shorts. 

It wasn't until Sex and the City that I realized that many people waxed themselves, and for that, I apologize, every boyfriend I've ever had. 

I admit that I still am unable to submit to waxing, because I am terrified. Absolutely petrified. I have, however, asked my dear husband to clean things up a bit during the later phases of both my pregnancies. 

Part the Second: Mine Can Read Minds

One of my best friends from college happens to prefer the ladies. She and her girlfriend have been together for about a hundred million years. Not surprisingly, she brings out the Venus in me, and many of our conversations, after a few cocktails, turn into snatch-offs. 

It's kinda like the movie Eight Mile, except that we don't rap, and we're bragging solely about the power of our respective vaginas. 

Please don't judge. Let me repeat, NUMEROUS COCKTAILS. 

A typical exchange: 

Friend: Mine can sing opera AND work a ventriloquist dummy at the same time.

Me: But can you do it while gargling vodka? Five times a day, the faithful turn towards mine and pray. 

Friend: My snatch is a certified necromancer . . . and, in response to your earlier question, it can gargle, spit out, and then catch tequila all in a ...motion that reminds strangers of the fountains in Vegas.

Me: Just wait until mine unleashes Blue Steel.

Friend: Please, yours will never turn left. I, unlike you, am like a freakin' Wonka'vator! I can go upways, downways, sideways, slantways . . . if there's a way, I hit that shit.

We can do this for hours. 

Part the Third: I Didn't Know this Was Music Class

Ever since my two vaginal births, I have become more...musical...downstairs than I had been in the past. 

All yoga classes are now accompanied by the delightful sounds of my queefs. 

After Owen was born, I couldn't do much of anything without causing a cacophony of queefing. In other words, my vajajay had gas. They don't tell you that in What to Expect When You're Expecting.

I think I terrified my brother-in-law, and that's all I'm going to say about that.

Part the End: Tales from the Taco

All things considered, I like my lady parts. They've given me my boys, good times, and blog fodder. Not to get all Vagina Monologues on you, but I'm curious. Do you have a taco tale to share? Do you want to join the snatch-off conversation?

Step up. I dare you.