The Gynie Monologues

WARNING FOR NEWBIES: If you are new to this site, this is not where you want to start. Trust me. Start from the beginning or pick another entry, but don't start here.

WARNING FOR MEN: If you think you can handle the literary terrain of this page, take a moment to brace yourself first. On second thought, just leave. Don't try to be a tough guy. In about 5 seconds you're going to be wiping sweat off the back of your neck and looking for an emergency exit, so it's best if you just cut your losses and leave now. I will miss you, but you can come back for the next installment. Get out.

SIDEBAR FOR SINGLE FATHERS OF YOUNG DAUGHTERS: You guys might want to stay. You will enjoy NOT ONE WORD of the following discourse, but the info may come in handy if you have a young daughter. And I'm sorry.

The other night my daughter, Sweet Pea, who is almost four-years old, 
unexpectedly announced that her gynie smelled like chicken.  A "gynie," as you might have guessed, is a vagina. I have a crazy heightened sense of smell and I have never once noticed anything smelling remotely like poultry coming from that region. I think I would have picked up on a chicken smell--I'm not a vegetarian. A bit concerned, and having no prior training in this area, I quickly picked up the phone and called my girl, Busy. I relayed Sweet Pea's chicken proclamation and not only agreed with Busy's response, but conceded with comfort when she said: "Well, it's better than tuna."

Somehow, the Kentucky fried gynie topic resurfaced again over dinner with several of my close friends. I was not prepared for their response. I got yelled at, in unison, by everyone. Apparently, this gynie thing is a big deal. I did not know that. It turns out that I'm the one at fault for chicken vagina. I'm not doing enough to maintain and inspect "the area."  I'm expected to get in there and check for redness and all kinds of other stuff.

What the hell? I've got a 19 month old in diapers and I already spend a good part of my day with a face full of that gynie (and sometimes that one has poop in it). Plus, I have my own gynie to worry about-- and it's not like I only attend Jr. on days when I see the gynecologist. NO. I'm on it. I don't let that s%@# go. This ain't the 70's. That kind of current dedication to two gynies begs the question: Is that not enough gynie in my life? Must I put Sweet Pea's gynie back on my "To Do List" as well? I thought I was granted freedom from her southern area the day we picked out her big girl undies.

I was wrong. The Day of the Gynie is not over. We're in there with wipes now, minimum: twice a day. Back in the gynie. We do a quick wipe once in the morning when she changes from pull ups to undies, and once before bed. Gynie maintenance. I'm janitor of the gynie. I still don't notice anything weird or off in the air, but now that Betty Bagina is back in the daily routine, it does seem like a fairly obvious item for the hygiene chart. Who knew? Respect the gynie! (Two fist pumps to the heart and a peace sign).

Yeah, and if you're still here--wishing you weren't--it's your own fault. You were
warned. You thought you were so tough, didn't you, Mr. Tough Guy? Mr. I'm-Not-Scared-Of-No-Chicken-Gynie. It was not the easiest thing to read, I know, but it is real...and evidentally, it's pretty important. I hope you come back in spite of this installment. They won't all be like this, I promise. Oh, come on! You're not CHICKEN, are you?