This is The Wondrous Vulva Puppet, brought to my attention by — of all people — my 11-year-old, Heaven help us all.
My first thought: now I’ve seen everything.
My immediate second thought? I haven’t. This tomfoolery is, in all likelihood, merely the tip of a mammoth iceberg of absurdity. I am but a hapless explorer, beginning a trek into a world of goofiness, a cartographer mapping out a journey to the center of silliness.
Armageddon rapidly recedes into the far distant future. Who would rain hellfire onto a universe festooned with such buffoonery?
Daughter: Mom?
Me: (busy, only half-listening): Um?
Daughter: In my Seventeen and my CosmoGirl magazines, they both have sections about … Australia.
Me: (still deeply involved in making the Internet safe for satire) Um-hmm.
Daughter: You know what I mean when I say “Australia,” right?
Me: (still attempting to phone in this conversation) A country inhabited by very outdoorsy, enthusiastic people with charming but difficult-to-mimic-accurately accents?
Daughter: (clearing throat) I mean “down there,” Ma.
Me: (whipping my swivel chair around way too quickly to achieve the cool, casual effect I’m striving for) Really? That’s, um…
Daughter: Anyway, I wanted to show you this page.
Me: (swiveling back to be handed the page you see on the left, and to be flabbergasted into speechlessness.)
Daughter: Are you mad?
Me: No! Of course not. No! Of course not. No! It’s… well… it’s SORT of natural… (Flapping around for the right thing to say, I reach for Old Reliable.) How do YOU feel about it?
Daughter: (who is by far the more mature and calm of this pair in just about all matters) I find it informative, but graphic and disturbing.
(Keen, accurate and precise. All those “omit needless words” I keep writing on her papers are paying off.)
I’m wondering, except for the part of me that would make my mother (but not my grandmother) blush, why exactly this thing has to be a puppet? I mean, as a puppeteer myself, I’m curious about the mechanics of the contraption. Do you stick your hand in, and make the lips move so The Wondrous VP can say things?
To whom?
What would it say?
Would it thank your hormones, as Seventeen Magazine suggests in the May 2008 issue, and I quote: “Dear Estrogen: Thanks for girly hips and breasts, plus strong bones, clear skin, and a better mood.”
Or this missive: “Dear Progesterone: Thanks for keeping periods coming, so I know I’m healthy and maturing into a woman.”
If I were going to write a letter to my hormones, it would read more like this:
“Thanks for turning me into a fried-chocolate eating, temper-tantrum-throwing, moody psychotic as often as Lon Chaney the werewolf has to strap himself into a chair, avoiding the curse of the full moon. REALLY appreciate that. OH: plus, I love that I’m out of the pool on all those 400-degree days. That’s terrific. Almost as fabulous as the bloating, the cramping and the headaches. But one more thing, in all earnestness – I do seriously appreciate you keeping my butt out of unflattering white pants.”
Although I probably should add that I truly am grateful that I don’t have man-hair on my face, or burly arms, or some hormonal disorder (although that thyroid thing that makes you super-thin would be tough to turn down. Wait: is thyroid hormones, or endocrine-something? Or are they the same? I forget. I’m a writer, not a doctor, Captain.)
At any rate, should you, Constant Reader, wish to own a Wondrous Vulva Puppet your very own self, you can! (Seventeen is VERY big on the bang – the exclamation point, my most hated of all punctuation marks!)
WARNING: ADULT CONTENT (the link, anyway):
For only $125, not including shipping and handling, you can have your choice of seven – count ’em seven – colors, featuring Classy Claret (that’s CLASSY Claret, mind you), and your choice of Ravishing Red or Regal Red, in case one red isn’t enough. There’s even one in Gorgeous Gold. And one with silver lips. Oooh, fancy. It’s at a site called Yoni.com (in their “Healing Gifts” section), but be warned: it’s an adult site, with DEFINITELY adult content.
END: ADULT CONTENT
So now you’ve been introduced to The Wondrous Vulva Puppet, and now, like me, you’ll be tormented with the phrase for days: like a song you can’t get out of your head, you’ll be repeating the phrase over and over in your mind: Wondrous Vulva Puppet, Wondrous Vulva Puppet…
Pass it on. Or not.
(photo: Page from Seventeen Magazine, May 2008 )
I have no problem being naked.
Gmail, my primary source of mail, makes money like this:
Well THIS kid seems okay, at least. Seems to be happy, right? That, ladies and gentlemen, is your paycheck for parenting, and the odd thing is, you wouldn’t actually trade it for actual money.
If YOUR nine-year-old hated Barbie® with THIS kind of passion, would THAT worry you?
My mother makes me feel like this.
Are you scared?
Ah… So Tiddly Winks actually exist.
It’s been a day full of piling up dominoes, and knocking them down. Fruitless, but sort of fun.
Look.
Everything you read on this blog is actually true. As in, this is a genuine, non-fiction blog. Generally, I don't name names when the parties concerned are (a) related to me and/or (b) under the age of majority, and therefore no matter how funny they are, unable to give their informed consent to have their hilarious but true commentary on the ridiculousness of life publicized globally. I do, however, skirt the issue of crediting them by admitting it was not ME who came up with their jokes, but "some kid." (Works for most of us.)
look - no, really, look 
