Apparently you people think I talk about vaginas a lot. (Side note: it still drives me absolutely batty that vaginas is apparently not the actual plural of vagina. For some reason I can’t bring myself to type vaginae. So suck it, spell check – I’m going rogue. But not in a Sarah Palin way. She’s a vagina represidator.)
Anyway, back at a un-vattooed vagina in Hoboken. I met Rocco and some of his co-workers for a quick drink the other night. As I walked up, someone said, “This is the girl that writes about vaginas.” I should really work that onto my business cards somehow. As a result, one of the ladies regaled us with a recent conversation she had shared with her daughter.
“Mom, Dar pulled me down the stairs and I fell right on my vagina.”
“I’m sorry, honey.”
“Why do I always fall vagina first?”
It was like a giant light bulb exploded in my cranium. Fall vagina first? I didn’t even know that was physically possible. I fall all the time. It’s kinda my thing. But in my 4.697 gazillion falls (estimated) I have never fallen vagina first.
Had I known I had the option, I’m sure I would have spent way more of my Columbia Records days falling vagina first on the likes of Will Smith, Maxwell, and Joey McIntyre (NKOTB forevah!). I would have somehow found a way on stage during the Police reunion tour so I could have “accidentally” impaled myself on Sting. Justin Timberlake would have two more restraining orders – one against me and one against my gravitationally challenged vagina.
Oh the world of possibilities that suddenly opened before me (pun totally intended.)
I was pulled out of my reverie to hear the mom continue her story. “So I told her, ‘I don’t know, honey, but you need to stop.'”
Hear me, little girl. Ignore your mother. Do not loose your gift. Hone this exquisite and unique talent. And then teach me.