Well, let’s see. I haven’t blogged about my vagina in a while, so I figure that now is as good a time as any to get back to that for a second.

(HI MOM! HOW WAS CHURCH YESTERDAY??)

So, here’s the deal. I recently joined up with Lucky Bloke for Mission: Great Sex! – a one-of-a-kind global condom review initiative where men and women in every possible demographic will test and (anonymously) review the world’s finest condoms.

When I first heard about this, I was all, “Uh, dude, I already have plenty of condoms.” But Melissa, the founder of LuckyBloke.com, was like, “Did you know that there are actually three different sizes of condoms and that guys can figure out their perfect size using an empty toilet paper roll?” And I was all, “What do you mean three sizes? Aren’t there just, like, regular condoms and then those magnum condoms?” And Melissa was like, “Aw, sweetie…” and then she educated the hell out of me about all things condom. Which was awesome. (THANKS, MELISSA!)

Even better than the personal education and the fact that Lucky Bloke offers everything from one-time purchases to monthly condom subscription services (with 10% of sales going to humanitarian causes!), is what she’s offering with Mission: Great Sex! If you’re selected, you’ll get to participate in the most comprehensive condom review in history, helping Lucky Bloke to determine which condoms really are superior to all the rest.

If you want to apply to be spoiled by the condom fairies at Lucky Bloke, just click here and mention that you came by way of this blog so they know you’re ready to offer up some bullshit-free opinions about latex love. Ooo, and if you’re selected you have to let me know so we can gossip about our favorite condoms – unless you think that’s weird, in which case, uh, I was obviously joking.

::shifty side-eye::

But wait! There’s more! Well, not more about condoms since we already covered the condom thing, but like, more random news about my life in general. Most importantly, I finished the final Twilight audiobook and had to deal with the horrible first-world-teenage-girl-esque problems of desperately missing Edward and having ALL THE DEPRESSIVE SADS. Seriously, you guys, I’m so distraught that there’s no more Twilight. What the fuck are you doing, Stephanie Meyer?? FINISH MIDNIGHT SUN, PUBLISH IT, AND THEN GET TO WORK ON WRITING THE OTHER THREE BOOKS FROM EDWARD’S PERSPECTIVE BEFORE I LOSE MY ACTUAL FUCKING MIND. I mean, c’mon, is that too much to ask?!

Then, in the midst of grieving the loss of Twilight in my life, I cut 8 inches off my hair & dyed it dark red. (WHAT? Don’t look at me like that. Drastic haircuts are a good way to manage the grieving process. HAS FELICITY TAUGHT US NOTHING??)

After chopping all my hair off, I added two new pages to my blog: one where I’ll be posting my favorite comments and one filled with links to books & articles I love from around the web. Then, I sent out my first Runner’s Brain newsletter (!!!!), made a lot of bad food choices (GIVING UP SUGAR IS SO HAAAARRRDDD), and re-watched an embarrassing impressive amount of Dawson’s Creek on DVD, a show I’m somehow totally hooked on again even though it’s so mother angst-ing terrible that I spend half of every episode cringing and the other half wanting to stab Dawson in the throat with an ironically sawed-off VHS tape.

Also, I spent 5 days in Arizona for my mother’s birthday where I learned that she’s deep into her self-described “purple period,” a phase in which her nails are constantly a dark, sparkly shade of lavender and her outfits/accessories aren’t too far behind.

Sigh.

PLEASE TELL ME THIS HELPS YOU TO UNDERSTAND WHY I AM TWO DEGREES AWAY FROM CRAZY AT ALL TIMES.

PS – How did we go from the very adult & responsible topic of condoms to the belligerently adolescent yelling about Twilight, Felicity, and Dawson’s Creek? What the fucking fuck is happening to me?!

Guess what? You can’t have all the shit you want at the same time. You can have all the shit you want over the course of a lifetime, but you can’t have it all at once.

Related note to self: FUCKING RELAX ALREADY

Like, okay, I want to write a book of short personal essays. I really want to do this, and I’d even go so far as to classify it as one of my BLFs (Big Life Fives – the five things I know I need to accomplish in order to feel that I’ve done what I’m meant to do), and yet I’m not making any progress at all toward this goal.

You have no idea how much time and energy I’ve wasted giving myself a hard time about the fact that I’m not working on my essays. If each of those wasted hours could magically be turned into an essay, I’d have a full fucking set of encyclopedias to show you.

So, I’m not working on the book of essays. But, despite what I’ve accused myself of in my head, I now realize that the reasons I’m not working on the essays do not include my being a) a giant failure, b) a worse writer than people who misspell “girl” in Craigslist Missed Connection ads, or c) lazy as fuck.

I’m not working on the essays because even though they are important to me in the long-run, they aren’t all that important to me right now.  I’m obsessed with the idea of completing a book of essays, but I’m more obsessed with completing a half marathon and building Shatterboxx, so those are the things that are taking priority.

And that’s what balance is, I think. It’s not the ability to do all the things at once, it’s the ability to recognize the few things you’re the most obsessed with at any given time, focus on those, and let it be okay that other things are getting temporarily neglected.

I know that there will be a time in the future when Shatterboxx requires less fanatical attention, and that’s when I’ll work on my book. There will then be a time after I’ve completed the book when I’ll move onto whatever my next obsession is, and work passionately on that. To me, that’s balance: knowing when to take six big steps in one direction, as opposed to trying to take one tiny step in six different directions.

While thinking about balance this week, and about my book of essays, I remembered a writing exercise I made myself do about a year ago where I wrote the first sentence of each of the thirteen essays I wanted to write. I just re-read them today, and even though I won’t be working on them for a while, I feel like publishing them here is as good of a first step as any toward completing the book (even if the next step doesn’t happen for months, or even years).

And so, I leave you with thirteen first sentences that will someday be thirteen full essays. Or, thirteen first sentences that will be entirely scraped for thirteen new first sentences to thirteen different essays. Because that’s the other thing about goals: they change over time and you have to fucking relax about that, too.

**
Chapter 1
If you ask her now, my mother will probably tell you that teaching me the word “vagina” at such an early age was a horrible, life altering mistake.

Chapter 2
“We need to discuss all the kissing,” my 5th grade principal said sternly.

Chapter 3
During the spring before my 11th birthday, my boyfriend passed me a note in math class that suggested we have a baby.

Chapter 4
My first experience with masturbation took place on a hotel cot in Dusseldorf, and at the time I was sure that whatever my body was experiencing would only work in Germany.

Chapter 5
I was 14 the summer we moved from London to Los Angeles, and making friends with the kids on my street would have been a lot easier if I hadn’t shown them how I had glued a piece of my peeled, sunburned skin to the corner of the collage I was making on my front lawn.

Chapter 6
When you get accepted into a summer program for high school students at the University of Michigan, you never assume that you’ll wind up with a roommate who slowly steals every single pair of underwear you own.

Chapter 7
I started babysitting when I was 15 years old, an age at which I was entirely unprepared to sit down with two grown adults and tell them that while they were at the movies, their son had tried to go down on their daughter.

Chapter 8
During my senior year of high school I realized that each time I got drunk, a small animal died.

Chapter 9
When I tell the story of the time I hooked up with a gay guy in the utility closet of my freshman dorm room, I usually preface the story by saying that it was “an accident.”

Chapter 10
If you need to drink two entire bottles of wine before getting into the shower with a guy, you probably shouldn’t be getting into the shower with him in the first place.

Chapter 11
Three months after my 21st birthday, I purposefully peed my pants in a New York City taxi cab.

Chapter 12
As he shut the front door and started down the stairs of his 5th floor walk up, I knew I had between 9 and 11 minutes to shave my vagina before he returned from the corner store with more beer.

Chapter 13
The goal of having sex in all 50 states started as a joke.

I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but I think I’ve finally reached the point in my vagina sponsorship where I own too many vibrators.

Gasp! Shock! Is that possible?!

Okay, let me rephrase. It’s not that I own too many, because I think that vibrators might fall under the same category as diamonds where THERE’S NO SUCH THING AS TOO MANY, it’s just that in order to expand my collection I now need to think outside of the regularly shaped vibrator spectrum in order to acquire something different from everything I already have.

And see, this is when it’s incredibly useful to have Fairy Vagina Parents (hi, Babeland!), because they knew exactly what I was thinking and chose to send me the Sphere Couple’s Vibrator, which looks like a cross between a frisbee and a black and white cookie and is therefore nothing like my other toys.

Wait, speaking of black and white cookies, have you ever had one of those? You know, the big cookies with the black frosting on one side and the white frosting on the other? They’re awful. Or at least, I think they’re awful but obviously a lot of people disagree with me because these cookies are everywhere in NYC. In fact, they’re such a staple New York thing that I always feel like I’m somehow disrespecting my roots by hating them. My mom’s all, “WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU, THERE’S NOTHING TO NOT LIKE ABOUT THESE COOKIES” and I’m all, “They’re just, I don’t know, too soft” and she’s all, “They’re cookies,” and I’m like, “I know, but, that frosting, ugh” and she’s all, “Whose daughter are you?!” and goes back to eating and loving the cookies that everyone else in NYC loves while I sit there like a freak who somehow managed to find something to dislike about a frosted cookie.

And it’s not just the cookies. What do you do when you’re not into something that everyone else is obsessed with? Like coffee, I hate coffee. And cats. And also, hey, I don’t want to hold your baby and no, not all babies are cute.

::hides::

But wait, don’t set my blog on fire! I’m about to give away one of the black and white vagina frisbees! Except, as it turns out, while this vibrator has one half that offers 5 vibration modes and one half that offers 5 vibration speeds, doubling as a frisbee isn’t actually one of its features – believe me. So kids, don’t try this at home. Don’t try to use the vibrator as a frisbee, I mean. Or as a cookie. Or wait, shit, kids! Don’t use a vibrator at all.

::hides again::

I think it’s time for me to go mainline some caffeine and stop turning the internet against me by being a cat hating kiddie sex referencer. In the meantime, feel free to comment for a chance to win a vibrating yin ying frisbee cookie that you can either use with someone else (one half each), or all by your awesomely greedy and coordinated self (both halves at once!)

I vote for the latter.

{Update: The sex frisbee goes to Mel!}

My vagina and I are in an enormous fight. The kind where you’re too angry to yell and scream, so you just give each other the silent treatment for three days until one of you breaks down like a little bitch and apologizes.

Yeah, that kind.

It all started last month when my Fairy Vagina Parents over at Babeland sent me the new OhMiBod Better Than Chocolate to experiment with. When it arrived I was all, “Clearly I’ve reached a new level of high-tech-ness now that I own a vibrator that hooks into my iPod and masturbates me to the beat.”

(Spoiler alert: Susan B. Anthony is totally somersaulting across her grave in excitement right now over how much progress our generation has made in empowering women.)

Can you imagine, though? Women weren’t allowed to fucking vote 91 years ago, and now we can freely purchase vibrators that allow us to wirelessly DJ our own orgasms.

I’m pretty sure that’s as good as it gets.

Except for the fact that in addition to making you a high-tech and empowered goddess woman, the OhMiBod also promotes multiculturalism by including translations of its instructions into an absurd amount of languages, meaning that not only will you wind up completely satisfied (you know, satisfied), you’ll also find comfort in knowing that if you’re ever in Germany with a gun to your head being asked to properly translate the phrase “Privacy Pouch,” you’ll be able to get out alive by having learned from the OhMiBod that in German, “Privacy Pouch” is “Aufbewahrungsbeutel.”

I couldn’t make this shit up. Except wait, watch this:

Slkdjdskgjf

That’s basically the same thing, right?

Just kidding German people, come back! I totally respect the fact that your language looks like angry keypunching and I promise that you have the same shot as everyone else at winning one of these orgasm music machines in the comments section of this post.

I should warn you though – not “you” the Germans, but the general “you,” (God this is spiraling out of control pretty quickly) – that there’s something you need to be prepared for in order to use this toy. You need to be prepared for your vagina to DESERT you and your good musical taste by getting more excited when a song by Ke$sha comes on than anything else.

KE$HA.

KE$HA!!

I’m sorry vagina, but no, that’s just unacceptable behavior right there. Are you listening to me?? WE DON’T GET TURNED ON BY KE$HA. We don’t find it arousing that she has chosen to use a fucking dollar sign in the middle of her name. Or at least, I don’t, but apparently my vagina does?

What a traitor.

So yeah, my vagina is on time out until it can learn that John Mayer > Ke$ha. This time out means that I haven’t even used all the features of my new toy, like the the fact that it’s, wait for it, Skype-compatible, letting you get off to the sound and rhythm of someone else’s voice via the computer.

High fives for sexy long distance relationships! With Germans! I seriously don’t think dead women’s rights activists could be more proud.

PS – Is it weird that in the 709 words I’ve used in a sex toy review post, 38 of them have been to make reference to dead feminists?

PPS- Did you know that in spite of what I thought before looking it up online, Gloria Steinem is actually still alive and therefore cannot be counted as one of the dead feminists I was referring to up there, even though she was initially the first person I thought of when getting ready to list dead feminists?

PPPS – Change that dead feminist word count to 94.

PPPPS – I guess that means that Gloria Steinem is technically eligible to comment for a chance to win an OhMiBod

PPPPPS- Babeland is having a sale from now through February 11 in which you can get up to $30 off your order, plus free shipping and delivery in time for Valentine’s Day so you can either a) spice up your sex life or b) masturbate until you forget that you don’t have a sex life. See? Babeland’s got you covered either way.

PPPPPPS- Oh, I’m finished, I just wanted to see what it would like like with just one more P.

{Update: our winner is comment number 63, Formica Dinette!}

At the end of this post, I’m going to tell you that Babeland, the incredibly kickass and female-friendly sex toy company, is helping me live my sexiest life in 2011 by sponsoring 7 items on my Life List.

Hey, look at that, I guess I was too excited to wait until the end of the post to tell you about it. OH WELL, OOPSIE.

This delicious sponsorship announcement means two things: one, that I’ve reached the point where I should probably make my vagina its own business cards, and two, that I’ll be able to share a lot more of the sex wealth with all of you lovely people who totally deserve it because you’re screwed up enough to have taken a liking to me and my frequent tangents off into the land of the vagina monoblogs in the first place.

(Ha, and your momma warned you that the internet was only full of bad things!)

The first Life List item that Babeland is helping me check off is number 66, “give twenty ‘just because’ gifts to twenty different people in the same week,” which means that yes, twenty of you will unsuspectingly receive a hot pink Orchid G vibrator in the mail later this month.

I know right?!

I’ve already picked the first 19 people – all bloggers, all awesome, all sexy, and all completely deserving of an increase in orgasms – but the 20th gift is still up for grabs. Want it? Let me know! Want me to review and give away something else in the next few months? Search through Babeland’s list of the top 25 items of 2010 (all 25% off right now!) and give me a shout about that too. My vagina is here to please you. Except, wait, not like that. That’s not included in the sponsorship agreement. I don’t think. Shit, I never read the fine print. BUT DID I MENTION THAT MY VAGINA BASICALLY HAS ITS OWN ENDORSEMENT?!

::dies::

(Yes, all of the Babeland links on my site are affiliate links. Yes, I get money when you buy your orgasms through this blog. Yes, I’m getting things for free because of this sponsorship, and so are my readers. Relax, FEC.)

Last Sunday was the end of an era: Jamie moved out.

She’s spending the holidays at home with her family before tragically abandoning me leaving for Europe, where I’m pretty sure her main goal will be to find out if everyone in Spain looks like Javier Bardem.

Who could blame her though? That’s a pretty delicious goal.

Living alone again is strange. I did it once, not too long ago, for about a year, and I can honestly say that I was stranger that year than at any other period in my life. Spending that much time by myself just caused me to do bizarre things; I ate combinations of food that I’d never eat with other people around, I developed habits that weren’t okay by any socially appropriate standard, and, weirdest of all, I started talking to myself and all of the inanimate objects in the apartment. Not just here and there, but all the time, full-on conversations. Debates with the TV, dialogues with the faucet – and I mean, who does things like that?

Granted, this was also during a time when I drank more wine than water and slept only a few hours per night (at most) and abused caffeine all day (correlation?), so the strangeness might have had more to do with the fact that I was explosively sleep deprived and constantly drunk than with the aloneness of it all. But, you know, the chicken or the egg, right?

Last night, I noticed myself doing the conversation with objects thing again, and even though I’ve only been living alone for four days I assume I’m now just a short fall down the rabbit hole away from full-fledged crazy.

It all started with the green beans. After eating mint chocolate covered marshmallows for dinner (adulthood!), I decided I should attempt to ward off scurvy by making myself a plate of vegetables. I opened the freezer and went to get the green beans from the back, when something tumbled out and onto the floor.

(Warning, I’m about to talk about the potential benefits of sticking garlic up your vagina.)

I looked down at the floor and saw the frozen tampon applicator that had been in the freezer for a few weeks, the one I filled with a paste of yogurt and minced garlic after reading on a variety of homeopathic websites that, when inserted into the body, these two foods can help cure things. You know, things. So I made the paste, or rather, I asked Jamie to “please mince the garlic for my vagina” while laughing hysterically, but then wound up doing it myself because she was grossed out and I felt bad. I put it in the freezer with plans to use it the next day, but by the next day I was actually feeling much better and never needed it.

Which is when I should have thrown it out, right? But I didn’t. I mean, mincing garlic, mixing it with yogurt, and carefully scooping it into an empty tampon applicator isn’t the easiest task in the world, so I figured I’d just save it in case I needed it again. After it fell on the floor last night though, I realized that it’s probably terrible juju to keep something like that around in case I get an infection. Isn’t that, like, tempting genital fate? So I threw it out, but not before absentmindedly talking to it and asking it to please keep its bad juju far away from my vagina, a conversation that later expanded to include me actually talking directly to my vagina and instructing it to launch its Go-Go Gadget immune powers.

God, four days alone and I’m already a complete freak. Good luck and high fives and bear hugs to the next person who has to live with me.

Also, yes, I know that vaginas don’t have their own immune systems. I also know that technically it’s “vulva” and not “vagina” but it’s also technically “photocopy” and not “Xerox” because Xerox is a brand that has just become synonymous with photocopy, like Kleenex and tissues, and no I’m not saying that my vagina is a brand but holy fuck it should be.

I wonder if I could trademark my vagina.

As part of my ever-growing collection of sex toys, I’m proud to announce that I now own one that looks like a bunny. Well, not an actual bunny. Not like with a cute little bunny face. I wouldn’t touch myself with a cute little bunny face. Or an ugly little bunny face. Or any little bunny face.

Shit, this is off to a horrible start.

A few months ago, Jamie and I went on a tour of the Babeland warehouse for no other reason than the fact that if someone asks if you’d like to tour their warehouse full of sex toys, you say yes.

(That’s piece of advice number one.)

Our favorite part of the tour was the library, or more accurately “The Room Where Every Sex Toy You’ve Ever Imagined Is Displayed To Look At And Play With But No Not Like That You Weirdo It’s A Warehouse Not A Brothel.”

It was in this library (or “TRWESTYEIIDTLAAPWBNNLTYWIAWNAB”) that I first learned about Jimmyjane, a premium sex toy company that I somehow hadn’t heard about in my years of superior vaginaness. I saw their shelf of gorgeous toys and was all, “Ooo” and the Babeland girl was like, “I know right?!” and I was all, “Wait, what the fuck is that?” and she was like, “That’s the Form 2” and I was all, “It looks like bunny ears” and she’s like “It’s one of my favorite toys, would you like one?”

(Piece of advice number two: when a woman who works at a sex toy warehouse asks if you’d like one of her absolute favorite toys, you nod quickly and do a little vagina dance.)

Back at home, I realized why it’s her favorite. The bunny ears sit on either side of everything you want vibrated and the five different modes actually do all feel completely different. Also, it’s waterproof. Also, the ears are flexible. Also, it runs for 7+ hours on a full charge. Also, the manual offers a variety of helpful tips such as, “Do not use on unexplained calf pain” and “Close supervision is necessary when this product is used by, on, or near children, invalids, or disabled persons.”

Which is to say, please comment for a chance to win one of these orgasm ears for yourself, but maybe don’t enter if you routinely masturbate by, on, or near children. Or if you plan to rub your new toy up against your unexplained calf pain.

Although if you have unexplained calf pain that’s bad enough that your last resort is to try to masturbate it, you should probably see a doctor. And if you do the thing with the children and the invalids, you should probably see someone else entirely. And if you want to double your chances for orgasmic goodness while sitting in open-mouthed disbelief at a product you never ever thought would actually exist, you should probably check out this other giveaway for a $2,750 vibrator. Yes, for real. Yes, it’s 24k gold, has 28 diamonds in it, and costs $2,750.

And like, on one hand there are people in the world with no clean water and I can’t believe I’m fantasizing about using a vibrator that costs more than my monthly rent, car payment, utilities, and student loans put together, but on the other hand CAN YOU IMAGINE GETTING OFF TO AN ALMOST THREE THOUSAND DOLLAR VIBRATOR? I seriously can’t think of anything more expensive that I’d like to put in my vagina so if you win and I don’t I’ll obviously pretend to be happy for you, but my clit is going to be pretty fucking angry.

And now an ending filled with adorable bunnies:

{Update: the random integer generator picked comment #51. Happy bunny orgasms to Sarah!}

Somewhere along the way I seem to have become the go-to person for all things related to vagina. The emails and blog comments I get are just, well, vulva-tastic. So, when I found out that Stript Wax Bar here in San Francisco offers a Vajacial service that’s basically a facial for your post-Brazilian waxed vagina, I knew I had to try it. You know, for the sake of my readers.

The lovely people at Stript let me come in for free (proving yet again that my vagina is so much more high maintenance and spoiled than I am), and the entire thing went something like this:

Discuss the procedure with Jamie before leaving the apartment. Debate whether the esthetician is actually going to massage my vagina the way they massage your face during a facial. Evaluate what to do if I accidentally get turned on. Question why in the hell I’m doing this. Falter. Go anyway. Arrive at Stript Wax Bar and wait for my appointment. Look around at how ridiculously adorable the place is. Read over the list of services and wonder about the particulars of a Boyzilian. Question what’s more painful, waxing a man’s sexy parts or a woman’s sexy parts. Struggle to think of a single guy I know who would let hot wax anywhere near his penis.

Meet Katherine, the owner, and get escorted back to the treatment room. Take off my skirt and underwear. Lay on the table. Feel sad that the table is more comfortable than my bed. Contemplate stealing the table. Chat with Katherine and get talked through the $60, 50-minute process: cleanse, exfoliate, ingrown hair removal, calming mask, lightening cream. Continue talking. Learn that for the 24 hours after getting a Brazilian wax, you shouldn’t work out or do anything with hot water, but you should apply Neosporin to minimize bacteria/ingrown hairs. Tell myself to remember these tips because fuck, ingrown hair removal hurts.

Get up and leave. Let my skin calm down. Stand naked in front of the mirror and investigate. Make James Bond investigate. Decide that in spite of the seemingly absurd and unnecessary nature of this treatment, my vagina actually does look the best it has ever looked. Find out that Katherine is offering my San Francisco readers 20% off a Vajacial of their own. Think that blogging comes with some very strange perks…

**

In other (and notably less glamorous) vagina related news, I have recently discovered that inserting a yogurt covered tampon into your hoo-ha can help with certain bacterial imbalances and infections. Yes, I learned this on the internet. Yes, of course I tried it. Yes, Jamie was with me at the grocery store asking my vagina which flavor it would like for feeding time. Yes, you’re only supposed to use the plain kind and she was kidding. Yes, we know we’re sick and weird. Yes, you’d think that removing the yogurt tampon after like 30 or so minutes would be messy, but it’s not. Because your vagina eats the yogurt. Or like, your vagina absorbs the yogurt. Or, I don’t know.

Ladies: You’re welcome.

Gentlemen: Until you’re willing to try out a Menstruation Machine (a suit for men that mimics what having your period is like by releasing blood from a reservoir and using abdominal electrodes to simulate cramps), you don’t get to have an opinion about vagina stuff.

Ladies: Would you seriously want your man to try this ridiculous machine?

Gentlemen: How far would you go to appease your girl?

Everyone: Are there any other bizarre things that my vagina and I should try?

We were making cocktails a few weeks ago and I was trying to recreate the glory of the ginger vodka plus Sierra Mist drink that should unquestionably be illegal, but we didn’t have any Sierra Mist so I rode the elevator down to the basement with a handful of quarters and a mission to empty the vending machine of all of its Sierra Mist-ey goodness.

Except the vending machine didn’t have Sierra Mist either. Or Sprite. Or ginger ale. Or anything that’s clear and carbonated and mixes well with ginger vodka. So I looked at the selections, settled on Sunkist, put my quarters in, pushed the button, heard the thud of the can coming down, and grabbed it. Then I looked at it and realized that it wasn’t Sunkist, it was orange Fanta. And like, what? Who does that? Who puts the totally wrong beverage in a vending machine and doesn’t warn people??

Frustrated, I decided to pick a second choice. I put my quarters in, selected unsweetened Nestea, pushed the button, heard the thud, grabbed the can, and guess what? No unsweetened Nestea. You know what I got instead? Fucking diet lemon flavored Brisk tea. Not unsweetened. Not plain tea. Not even the same BRAND. And like, I stood there for a few minutes and looked at the vending machine and wondered why this type of thing *always* happens to me.

Also, why is it so absurdly impossible to get a real person on the phone when you call a customer service number?

Also, how the fuck am I going to Vegas again on Sunday and what do I do with the fact that it’s going to be 108 degrees??

Also, please remind me to tell you the story about my Vajacial (facial-esque procedure for the vagina) when I get back. And the story about the yogurt tampon. You definitely want to hear the story about the yogurt tampon. In fact, you should probably just prepare yourself for an entire post full of my new found vaginal wisdom.

Yes, I have a very wise vagina.

On days when I’m irrationally stressed out, I take a few minutes to sit quietly and play the “this-would-be-worse-if” game until I calm down. You know, that game that’s supposed to put things into perspective because you realize shit isn’t that bad after being all, “This would be worse if I was in the middle of a tornado” or, “This would be worse if I only had one leg” or, “This would be worse if I were allergic to cheese” or, “This would be worse if a wild horse charged through the door and kicked me in the face while peeing all over the floor.” Usually though, the game ends when I think, “This would be worse if my vagina looked like some of those weird vaginas in sketchy porn movies where the clit is long and stretched out like a baby penis.”

(No, I don’t spend a lot of time looking at baby penis. I mean any time! I don’t spend any time looking at baby penis! Shut up. I DON’T. I’m just saying that I’m grateful for my normal vagina okay that’s all thank you amen.)

Seriously though, I think it’s pretty safe to say that my vagina is my favorite thing in existence. And yes, I know I’m supposed to say “vulva” instead of vagina because that’s anatomically correct but the word vulva makes my insides die a little bit so I’m just going to keep saying vagina regardless of what you and your judgey mcjudgerstein friends think.

Because my vagina is special. So special, in fact, that it even has it’s own schedule. I’ll be sitting down to make plans for the week and I’ll have to be all, “Wait, which sex toy am I reviewing on Tuesday?” and “When’s my Brazilian waxing appointment?” and “Do I have time to try the Vajacial?” (an actual 50 minute facial-like spa service for the vagina that’s being offered here in San Francisco).

It’s basically come down to my needing a separate planner just for my vagina. I swear that bitch has a more active schedule than I do. Like, over the past month it was “Must use the sex swing!” and “Must take a road trip to Oregon to cross another state off my Sex in 50 States List!” and “Must charge the $109 cock ring that the gorgeous people at Babeland sent me!” Oh, the ever exhausting horror.

JUST KIDDING. ME SO LUCKY. THIS THE BEST VIBRATING COCK RING EVER.

It’s like, imagine the best sex you’ve ever had. And then imagine that that sex went to the gym for like eleventy hundred hours and got even sexier. And then imagine that that newly pumped up sexy sex also brought you flowers wrapped in brown paper. And then imagine that that newly pumped up sexy sex remembered to get you flowers more creative than roses and also threw in a massage, an iPod shuffle, and sixteen very sincere compliments. That’s sex using the LELO Tor.

No joke, this thing has six different stimulation modes and some are fast and some are slow and some are pulsing and OH MY GOD THE PULSING MODES and it’s so easy to use and the crazy things holds its charge for like two fucking hours and and and seriously I think if I had sex with someone while he was wearing this thing for two entire hours I’d be dead from too! many! explosive! orgasms! Also, after a little research I learned that “Tor” is a name from Norse Mythology, so you might as well be having a threesome with your man and a Scandinavian man. Or your dildo and a Scandinavian man. Or, well, I don’t know the details but there’s definitely room for a Scandinavian man in there somewhere. Yum.

Did I mention that I love this sex toy? And did I also mention that I love Babeland enough to have signed up for their affiliate program (see sidebar) and that if you ever decide to buy sex toys you should do it through this link so that in turn, I can buy more tequila?

ORGASMS FOR YOU + TEQUILA FOR ME = WIN WIN SITUATION

Sidenote: If you live in NYC or Seattle, you should seriously take one of the workshops offered at your local Babeland store. They’re amazing.

Double sidenote: Babeland should open a store in San Francisco.

Triple sidenote: I’d totally get trained to teach said workshops.

Quadruple sidenote: I don’t have anything else to say here, but I really just wanted to see if I could spell the word “quadruple” without needing spell check. For those of you who added a “t” in there somewhere: high five, me too. For those of you who added a “t” in there somewhere and who also continually try to add a “p” to hamster and at least twelve unnecessary letters to the word “privilege,” let’s all remember that even though we’re shit spellers, this would be worse if we had tiny baby penis clits and if I didn’t have the LELO Tor.

See? ALL BETTER NOW.