Ladies,

It is time to get down and dirty ahem intimate with vaginas.

Yeah- I just said “The V word” – or “The other V word…” however you want to look at it. Either way, the social taboos placed on our body parts hurt our personal and collective understanding of our anatomy and sex. I say we grow up and start talking like adults.

Amongst the slang and the crude, through the demeaning and the illogical, even phallic nicknames for a woman’s genitalia, there are very few that I have ever felt comfortable claiming.

In the past few years, “Va-jay-jay” has taken many of my friends by storm as a “cute” nickname for our previously regarded “most private parts,” um  “down there,”or “ahem, you know.”

However, there are so many other names that many women, myself included, don’t desire to lay claim to. A quick internet search yields: beaver, bush, bearded clam, pussy, cunt, crack, crease, furbox, slot, and adam’s cave. There is a more complete list here…if you dare.

Ew.

According to the New York Times, there are over 1,200 slang words for vagina.

How many of those names sound like they were impressed upon the misunderstood idea of a vagina by hormone-crazed boys looking to make fun of something they had never seen? Many nicknames can be categorized as distasteful, demeaning and  downright disgusting. They turn a normal part of female anatomy into something weird, gross and uncomfortable. Do we need nicknames for our hands, eyes, mouths, ears, feet or knees to feel comfortable talking about them? Of course not. Why would we need to use anything other than the correct anatomical term for any part of our bodies?

I decided to create a new nickname to show how silly it is to constantly speak in metaphor, to laugh at the idea of a nickname for my “little girl” and to own this word that defines such an intimate part of me.

Surprisingly, it wasn’t hard to come up with a new descriptor that was left off the extensive list of vagina nicknames.

I decided on: Oyster.

Image from: http://www.infovisual.info/02/009_en.html

Here’s some basic Oyster information derived from Wikipedia (yeah, don’t pretend like you are too good for Wikipedia!):

Outer Appearance: The Oyster shell consists of two usually highly calcified valves which surround a soft body….Oysters always orient themselves with their outer, flared shell tilted upward….The submerged shell opens periodically to permit the oyster to feed….

Getting to an Oyster: Oysters are harvested by simply gathering them from their beds. In very shallow waters they can be gathered by hand or with small rakes. In somewhat deeper water, long-handled rakes or oyster tongs are used to reach the beds….

Taste: Raw oysters are regarded like wines in that they have complex flavors that vary greatly among varieties and regions: some taste sweet, others salty or with a mineral flavor, or even like melon. The texture is soft and fleshy…

Sexual Context: Oysters have always been linked with love. When Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love, sprang forth from the sea on an oyster shell and promptly gave birth to Eros, the word “aphrodisiac” was born. The dashing lover Casanova also used to start a meal eating 12 dozen oysters.

I’m going to let all that innuendo speak for itself.

Seriously, I’d feel silly telling my GYN that I had a concern with my “Oyster.” I’d be even more uncomfortable asking my friends questions about their “Oysters.”

Why do we need 1,200 nicknames for our vagina? Why are people so uncomfortable talking about their genitalia? And am I the only one who finds it a little ridiculous to tap dance around the word?

After I wrote this raw and emotionally-charged post, one of my blogger-friends asked me if I’d considered therapy.

Now, she didn’t tell me I needed therapy, and she didn’t condescendingly suggest that I get help. So, please don’t go hating on her – a lot can be lost in translation when you read someone’s words without body language or tone. Her words and tone were kind and caring….at least in my mind.

So, I am very happy to openly and honestly answer the question: Have I considered therapy?

Absolutely.

Every day of my life.

Seriously, I freaking love therapy.

Love.Love.Love.

There is nothing in the world like walking into a bright and tidy office, pouring a cup of tea and sitting on a comfortable sofa across from someone who is not only a professional listener, but knows exactly what to say; whether that be self-affirming positive thoughts, suggested anti-anxiety coping mechanisms, or the tough questions that everyone else in your life tip-toes around and ignores.

I love cliches: the therapist’s cat, sitting on the windowsill, the trickling fountain or CD of whale songs, the pleasant smell and happy shades of yellow, orange and green. The fuzzy pillow and shelves of leather-bound books. I love the cliched way therapists talk! And how does that make you feel?

I love feelings! I love talking about them and comparing them and analyzing them and feeling them! I love how you can morph your feelings into new feelings when you understand from what part of your soul they are rooted. Suddenly, anger becomes hurt, and hurt, disappointment and disappointment, betrayal.

I love how, for 60 minutes, you are that one person’s number one priority. They don’t take phone calls or keep their iPhone on the desk at all times so they know the moment someone “likes” their current Facebook status.

Nowadays, it can be hard to feel like you are anyone’s priority. I don’t remember the last time I was out with someone who kept their phone off the entire time. I don’t remember the last time I had dinner with someone who wasn’t obviously monitoring their phone or discretely trying to send under-the-table texts.

Now, I know what it is like to be on call and whether you are a working professional or a parent needing that direct line for the babysitter, sometimes, the phone must stay on. Still, most of my friends are not on-call neurosurgeons.

But that is another rant for a different day.

Back to therapy.

I think everyone could benefit from therapy. Whether it is a real need or not, exercising your introspective side with a trained professional will only help you. Just like everyone could benefit from hiring a personal trainer to work out with them at the gym several times a week.

In the past, therapy helped me work through one of the most difficult challenges of my life: my father’s sudden and unexpected death. I was 23. My dad was a psychologist and I felt the loss of not only my father, but my go-to sounding board. I was devastated. I was stationed far away from my family. I reached out to friends, but I was too sad for most of them to handle. I started losing my confidence in reaching out. Talking to a therapist helped me put all the broken pieces inside me back together again.

However, I am not currently considering therapy.

Why is that?

It would make sense for me to – I recently lost my job, moved myself, my dog and my cat 1,800 miles to live with my mom, and broke things off with someone I used to know (yeah, just like the song). I left behind the little niche I had carved for myself in Branford, Conn. and the hot dating scene.

I also had two very traumatizing incidents involving squirrels.

Aside from all of these big life events, I don’t really need therapy right now, I have goats!

Well, they are not my goats. They belong to acquaintances of a high school friend of mine and we are self-appointed goat milking interns.

With a baby goat nuzzling your neck, who needs therapy?

Milking the goats is innately cathartic. It is simple, natural, a physical task requiring that you feel the milk, adjust your grip and pull down, squeezing without prompting the goat to kick a dung-covered hoof into the bucket of frothy milk.

I’ve never done anything like it before. But, when I leave the goats, I am not focused on worries or stresses.

Besides, I don’t really have time for therapy right now. I’m about to embark on a month-long trip to Japan and Hong Kong and Thailand. I’m going to visit an old roomate and an elephant sanctuary. I’d feel a little weird asking a therapist to schedule me around my awesome world travels…

So, therapy? Not now, thanks.

Maybe later, when I have more time and money.

Maybe later, when I have a real need for it, rather than an appreciation.

Maybe later, when my emotions are too big to blog about and I can’t control them.

Right now, though, I sort through all of my feelings on my blog. If you can’t tell, nothing stays bottled up inside of me and I’m not afraid to release my most intimate neuroses. The key is, right now I’m in control of my feelings. I feel them, recognize them, analyze them, chew them up, spit them out, laugh and cry and write about them. Then, I let them go.

And I move on.

Today is my day.

Today is my day to wear black.

To mourn and celebrate as I see fit.

To laugh and cry.

To sit near a polished stone and talk to it…for a minute, an hour, all day.

Today is my day to be terrible, selfish and unconcerned – to put my feelings first.

Today is my day to hurt.

Today is my day to trace the words engraved in stone:  In Loving Memory of…

Today is my day to honor my Father’s life.

Today, I do not tolerate judgement. I do not tolerate the empty phrase, “I know how you feel.” I do not tolerate anyone being anything but kind and gentle with me.

Today I do whatever I need to do to heal, to stand up, to move forward. One more step. One more year.

Today marks 4 years since this day.

Today is my day to remember – Father, Counselor, Friend.

Today is my day to pray.

Today, I allow myself to wish he was still here-

-to give me advice, give me $20 for gas, give me a hug….to walk me down the aisle and give me away one day.

Today, I hit the pause button on life and indulge in self-pity.

Because, in 24 hours, today will have morphed into tomorrow. And tomorrow I simply go on.

Tomorrow, I go on to not feel bad for myself, to not let missing him cripple my plans, to be tolerant and kind. Tomorrow, I go on to celebrate and color my world. Tomorrow, and every day after, I honor him through my deeds, my courage and my strength.

But today, today is not fair.

Usually, I play it cool. This is so me not playing it cool.

Sometimes I feel so hard, I don’t even know what words there are to describe my feelings…It’s like my heart presses up against my rib cage, until it rubs the edges raw.

I got some good closure recently. From someone who regards me as a good friend.

A good friend.

Oh hell.

I hope I am a good enough person to be friends with this boy. I honestly am not sure, though, because, I felt some sort of love for him.

Not love-love, but a kind of love nonetheless.

He was someone with whom I knew I had no future; our paths only crossed for a few months. Still, when I was near him, I conveniently forgot that we would simply be a moment in my life; nothing longer – nothing more serious. How easy is it for one’s brain to forget such simple concepts? What epic flaws in grandiose plans we ignore for this love-like thing.

My lover. Oh, he did not love me. Not at all. He liked me. But, he had no room in his heart for my love. He did not love me. I say that more for me to read again and again than for you. He did not love me. Did.Not.Love.Me.

And that hurts. I want to be loved. Deeply and every day of my life. Still, it is better to be aware of someone’s real feelings than to distress yourself with intricate imaginings of what could be if only…

if only he felt the same….

if only he didn’t care about reality either…

if only he cared enough about me…

He would be here. He would crash into my life once more.

I know that’s not the answer – as much instant gratification I could glean from a tryst, the cruelest and kindest thing he could do is cash in his open invitation to my life. Cruel because I would once again hit the proverbial pause button and apply blinders to any other potential lovers (I swear, I was designed for monogamy) and kind because I want nothing more than to satiate this hunger for his smell and feel of his touch. My body writhes in withdrawal. The chemistry in my brain is off balance.

I cry.

I cry for one more touch. Just one more embrace. One more.

I cry for my loss.

I didn’t want to “move on.” But, he released me. Gave me his blessing for moving on to new lovers. He asked to remain friends.

I hope I can do it.

Really, I doubt I’m strong enough to carry the burden of lover to friend as I move on. I don’t know if I have the class, poise and self-control. I want to stay friends with him, but I don’t expect we will. I expect it to be too damn hard.

I question my motives – do I lash out and attempt to elicit a jealous response?

That’s a terrible idea. There is no feeling worse than the lack of a response – there is nothing worse than them simply not caring. And I know he doesn’t care. Why force reminders on myself with empty affairs?

I question my feelings – what is this love-like thing sitting like a shattered brick in my stomach? How deep did it run? To where would I have followed it? I shiver to think. I stop asking questions.

I know only one thing for certain – I can’t be angry. Not at him, as his intentions were made clear at the start and never changed. Not at myself as my feelings have never been reined in tightly. No, there is no anger. Just tears. And hurt. And emptiness.

And the loneliness of another break in my oh-so-fragile heart.

The 1987 classic Moonstruck staring Cher and Nicolas Cage has got to be one of my all time favorite movies, mostly for scene in which Ronny Cammareri professes to Loretta:

I love you. Not like they told you love is, and I didn’t know this either, but love don’t make things nice – it ruins everything. It breaks your heart. It makes things a mess. We aren’t here to make things perfect. The snowflakes are perfect. The stars are perfect. Not us. Not us! We are here to ruin ourselves and to break our hearts and love the wrong people and die. The storybooks are bullshit. Now I want you to come upstairs with me and get in my bed!

Oh, how I secretly wish to hear those same words pour from the mouth of some ruggedly handsome butcher or baker or candlestick maker. But don’t call me a romantic – not just yet.

Because my other favorite quotes include:

Ronny: I love you.
Loretta: Snap out of it!

and

Johnny: In time, you’ll see that this is the best thing.
Loretta: In time, you’ll drop dead and I’ll come to your funeral in a red dress!

Ah ha – yes. There is something refreshing, like a Mint Julep on an August afternoon in Southern Louisiana, about honesty in love. Does it exist? Is it possible for two people madly in love with each other to be honest? Sure. Well, maybe. Is it possible for them to be honest with themselves? Now, that’s the question!

A question I’ve unfortunately not always answered in with the affirmative.

In the past, I’ve made two of the biggest happiness-annihilating relationship blunders:

1. I’ve compromised my virtues, not my vices. Compromise is at the foundation of any relationship, but in a good relationship, you should only compromise on your bad habits, never your good ones.

2. I’ve viewed my lover’s vices as virtues. This one is tricky, especially for those of us perpetual optimists who try to find the best in every situation. Still, I’ve found myself not just forgiving my lover for his imperfections, I’ve actually turned them into something positive, for example: He’s so grounded, I really need someone to anchor me and stop me from chasing all of my crazy dreams. Ugh. I hate that I really said that.

I’m not rushing into love again. I’m holding out. Call me a fool (or some twisted romantic) I’m holding out for honesty. I don’t want perfection – no snowflake lover for this girl. So go ahead, tell me how wrong we are for each other, how much it doesn’t make sense for us to feel this attraction, but we can’t deny it’s presence. Tell me how you didn’t see it coming. How it’s the wrong place, wrong time, and there is no way I fit into your plans, because I doubt you fit into mine.

Tell me I am crazy. That my life is a mess and I need to seriously reconsider how I manage my finances. Tell me I suck at being domestic and can’t make a frozen pizza without burning myself. Tell me I am bossy and flaky and drive around with my foot on the clutch. Tell me I’m never on time and the only reason I think I have a good sense of direction is because I never really care when or if I reach a specific destination. Tell me I drink too much and swear like a sailor and never keep my phone on or return calls. Tell me I make you crazy, but you are addicted to my coffee and cherry lip-gloss flavored kisses. Tell me I hog the bathroom and hog the covers. Tell me I spend way too much money on organic vegan lotions, but you can’t stop touching me. Tell me you can’t stand to live with me, but you don’t even remember how to live without me anymore.

Just don’t tell me I have pretty eyes. I hate cliches. Everyone has pretty eyes.