no need to clean

     As a new blogger working to earn a growing readership, I read the “big dogs” of the blogging world regularly to see what I can learn. One thing I’ve discovered is that there’s a humbling amount of good writing on-line, and that bloggers write about EVERYTHING. Which is why when I read Finslippy’s recent post that had to do with her hoo-ha and soap, I decided that was all the go-ahead I needed to share my own story on that subject.
     When I was ten we lived in Tennessee, and I often spent weekends with my granny on my mom’s side. I loved those weekends, and even though I was a bit of a tomboy, my old-school granny still adored me. Bath time was beyond debate, and she would often knock and check to make sure I was taking the business of getting clean — which required a washcloth and a bar of soap at her house — serious enough.
     I’m pretty sure I was going down the checklist and doing just an average job of washing between my legs when Granny walked in one evening and went all deer-in-the-headlights on me. “You know, you don’t need to worry about cleaning Down There,” she said.
     “I don’t need to clean my vagina?” I replied.
     “No, not really,” she said.
     That one stumped me. “Well how come?” I asked.
     “Because it sort of cleans itself,” she said.
     Who knew?
     And how cool was that? From then on, vaginas were like self-cleaning ovens, except you didn’t even have to hit a self-clean switch, they just kept themselves all spiffy by themselves. No need to go anywhere near that vicinity. No siree. You could forget you even had one as far as Granny was concerned.

Gosh, what is there to say about a photo this unfortunate? Well. It’s only offered as a visual of me in 6th grade, a year after my granny told me what NOT to wash. And I thought my biggest problem was trying get my hair to look like Farrah Fawcett’s.
     Umm, yeah. Go ahead and let the consequences of that conversation simmer for a moment.

     Or don’t.
     Granny, who died too young at the age of 67 from breast cancer, was a teeny bit bats. And because she and I always got along famously, I mean that in the nicest possible way. You always knew if you were "on the outs” with her, because she had an extensive collection of Hummels — glass figurines — and expensive furniture, which had strips of masking tape beneath them with various family names written. If you crossed Granny, you might find your name switched to a lesser-valued item, or even worse, REMOVED.
     In case you’re worried, I did update the file on vagina (or “va-jay-jay” as Oldest Son calls it when he’s trying to be politically correct but can’t quite bring himself to choke out the actual word) cleaning a few years later, when I ran it by my mom, who was understandably horrified.
     I still have a few precious items from granny where I’ve kept the tape with my name written in her recognizable scrawl beneath them. And Granny, wherever you are, please know that I love you and still think about you often, but in my house, we go there. Junk doesn’t just get dusted, it gets CLEANED.

Granny and me in 1986, the year I graduated from high school; six years before she died.

Comments

[Brother John]

Ummm...thanks for the posting, Oh Favorite Neese.

I think.

I can't wait to talk to your dad.