The Gynie Monologues

WARNING FOR NEWBIES: If you are new to Dim Sum and Doughnuts, I’m not sure if this is the best place to start. You might want to try a different post first and come back here when you’re ready.

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 and I hope you come back.

TO SINGLE FATHERS OF YOUNG DAUGHTERS: You guys might want to stay. You will not enjoy ONE WORD of this, but the info may come in handy if you have a young daughter. And I’m sorry. 

The other night my  daughter, who is almost four-years old, announced that her gynie smelled like chicken.

A “gynie,”  as you might have guessed, is a vagina. That’s what we call it. (Love it, hate it, that’s what we call it.) I have a crazy heightened sense of smell and I have never once noticed anything remotely smelling 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 friend, “Busy.” I told her about chicken vagina and agreed with comfort when she said: “Well, it’s better than tuna.”

Somehow, the Kentucky Fried Gynie topic resurfaced again over dinner with a bunch of my 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 the foul fowl smell. I’m not doing enough to maintain and inspect “the area.”  I’m expected to get in there and check for redness and stinkiness 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 contend with—and it’s not like I only attend to Jr. on days when I see the gynecologist. NO. I’m on it. I don’t let that $h*t go. This ain’t the 70’s.

Is that not enough gynie?  I thought I was done cleaning and sniffing when we moved out of diapers.

I was wrong. 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 any weird smells 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? Not me.

RESPECT THE GYNIE, YO!

And if you’re still here—wishing you weren’t—it’s your own fault. You were warned. But you thought you were so tough, didn’t you, Mr. Tough Guy? Mr. I’m-Not-Scared-Of-No-Chicken-Bagina. I know…vagina talk is kind of gross, but it’s real…and if you have girls, it’s important.

Clean the cooch! Pass it on…

Oh, come on! You’re not CHICKEN, are you?

 

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