I'd like them to make a sandwich of my body.

OHMIGOD. You guys, I have the biggest crush on Elton John. I know, there are like 42 things wrong with that statement, but I just can't help it.

And I was ambivalent about Gaga until I saw that video of her performing at NYU, then I was smitten with her whole thing too. And I couldn't stop grinning at my TV. They're just SO COOL.

Did they teach you THIS in sex ed? AKA, all about my box.

This post is totally TMI. But I can't be the only one this has ever happened to, and I'd like someone to bitch with, if you're out there.

First, I feel like I should disclaim that to an outsider, my situation is quite admirable. I am always fresh and clean, and always usually keep the landing strip well-maintained. I suppose it's true that I’ve yet to vajazzle, but gotta save something for a marital dry spell, ya know? Anyway. Point is, it’s like an episode of Hoarders in my box. Looks like a respectable abode from the outside, with all hell breaking loose inside.

Surgery number one. 2004. (Which is how I always know what year Friends ended. I’m an awesome teammate at bar trivia, if you're ever lookin.) Drunk sexing with the ex-bf (actually, I’m pretty sure we were already broken up, but I went through a pathetic phase.) I feel like I’ve been stabbed through the abdomen with a pencil. Cue 6 hours of writhing on the kitchen floor in horror, drinking 12 juice boxes because I thought maybe I was just constipated (it hurt behind my butthole, seriously) while the douche just SLEPT. In my bed. I finally called my dad at 7am when I pulled myself onto the toilet and fainted. And fell off and hit my head on the bathtub.

So, emergency room, metal dildo liquid injection into my anus, MRI, an abdomen so full of blood I looked 6 months pregnant and it went ‘glug glug’ when I moved … it was a softball-sized ovarian cyst that had ruptured.

Surgery number two, 2005, when Jeff and I first started dating. Bartholin’s Gland Cyst – hold that thought.

Surgery number three, 2009. LEEP for pre-cancerous cells on my cervix. That one’s boring because it wasn’t an emergency and so far I don’t have cancer, so I’ll leave it alone. The thing to note is that THESE ARE THREE TOTALLY SEPARATE PARTS. Ovaries, cervix, Bartholin’s gland. Are all the suck. (The doctors tell me these things "shouldn't" affect my fertility, and I know they shouldn't, but seeing as the only way to know if I can get pregnant is to ... get pregnant, I really have no way of knowing.)

So, now it's 2010. I have another Bartholin’s Gland cyst. Bartholin’s glands: small glands on either side of the vaginal opening that produce arousal fluid. OR get plugged up somehow and swell to the size of a golf ball and hurt like a whore. BALLS! So I’ve been having a problem with pants and underwear for about 5 days now, but since most places I go require me to wear at least one of the two, I’ve been in hell.

Now, here is my dilemma. My doctor isn’t in the office until Wednesday, but I want to wait for her, because she’s awesome. My best friend is also a doctor. And also awesome, but she’s not my doctor. So we’re going to this party on Saturday night, and sitting around drinking wine and eating spin dip beforehand, and I’m rocking a dress with houses on it and blue tights. (That’s not important, I just wanted to set the scene of how hot-quirky I looked. Because that’s my favorite kind of hot.) And she says, well I could drain it. Just let me know and I’ll bring stuff home from the hospital tomorrow and just do it. It’s a really easy procedure.

And I just stared at her for probably 20 minutes, imagining how I'd feel laying spread-legged in front of her. Every time I thought I was fine with it, another side-eye snuck up onto my face.

Honestly, It was more that I felt bad making her stare into my box than that I was afraid of a scalpel/syringe/catheter combo in her living room. That’s a true friend, I think. She’s lucky. She tells me it doesn’t matter, that she’s seen hundreds of vaginas, that she’s already seen me naked. I’m sure both of those things are true.

We got drunk and I was like "Yeah! Let's do it! It will be a fun bonding experience, and free! YAY!!!"

Yeeeaaaaah ... I decided not to do it. Honestly, I did get over the fact that she’d have her hands on my box. It just came down to the fact that a fucking golf ball in my vagina isn’t worth a friendship, and I was afraid that if something WERE to go wrong, and we’d done this thing undocumented, that I’d basically either have to shell out a bunch of cash to get it fixed or, like, sue my best friend? I mean, I don’t really know how medical suits work but I’m pretty sure I don’t want to be involved in one with my BFF.

But every hour that I’m counting down to farking Wednesday, I kinda wish I hadn’t erred on the side of caution.

They used to call me 'Anal Girl' ...

First and foremost, have you seen (500) Days of Summer? Of course you have. Because you're awesome and IT'S AWESOME.

Anyway, Jeff (husband) and I were just e-mailing each other sweet, sexy things like which food in our fridge is about to go bad, and he mentioned craving some stuffed peppers "like you made that one time in college." And I totally got a flashback, and I about died at my desk out of a mix of shame and hilarity, because I had forgotten about that time.

Nowadays, I cook some stuff. I'm not afraid of the kitchen anymore, and when I make dinner it's sometimes a little too mushy/not mushy enough, but I get it right the next time. The only things I'm still afraid of are the grill, chicken with bones, and mangoes.

But this was not always the case.

Jeff and I met when I was 21 (4 years ago) and I pretty much knew right away that he was The One (only don't get me started on ONE ... topic for another time), blah blah. I'd never pretended to be anything I wasn't around him - he knew from the get-go that I am messy, I can eat 2 entire Chipotle burritos at one time, I get very sad that Harry Potter is not real, I rarely finish an entire game of anything when I am losing, I always cry when I'm drunk, I will bring home any stray animal I see, and I sometimes 'sleep' on the couch for no reason than to stay up watching Paranormal State until 3 AM.

But I was always really self-conscious about my lack of cooking skillz. I think it's because when I first got to college and I tried to make French Toast, I called my mom in a panic and told her all I was accomplishing was frying eggs on the bottom of bread, and my family WILL NEVER LET THAT DIE.

Anyway, about 6 months into our relationship, I felt this urge to show him that I could be a good little wifey someday and decided to make him dinner. God knows why I chose STUFFED PEPPERS as my culinary debut instead of just, like, pasta with vodka sauce (noodles, vodka, so easy a monkey could do it - win, win, win) but I did.

I was so scared that I was going to fuck it up that I went to the store while he was at class during the day and made the entire meal. As a practice round. 4 servings of peppers stuffed with carbs and when I deemed them acceptable, I THREW AWAY the entire kit-n-caboodle (Hey! Caboodles! I bet a straight-up old school Caboodle would be awesome for my makeup.) and pretended like it never happened.

And made them all over again 4 hours later. Hahahahaa that's so pathetic. But I just emailed him that story and he said it was surprisingly cute, so I'll go with that.