Right between the vagina.
A while ago, I had to drive from New York to New Jersey to get blood drawn. It was only 70 miles, but considering the traffic, it took two and a half hours to get there. Me being me, I walked into the exam room, my arms waving in the air, bellowing, “I had to cross five frigging bridges to get here!”
The technician was a beautiful, large 79-year-old woman of the kind I grew up with on Long Island—Full of personality. She exclaimed back, “Oh my God, can you frigging believe that?!”
She reminded me of my sister Jane as she rolled around the room gathering the needed supplies. Once everything was situated, she grabbed my arm and pulled it into her lap, so she didn’t have to bend.
The problem was, her legs, being as fleshy as they are, they couldn’t close, so my hand was practically inside her hoo-hoo.
Not noticing that minor detail, she put the rubber tourniquet around my arm and then pumped the blood vessel in my elbow. Once it grew big and fat, she turned for her needle. As she did, I discretely pulled my arm out from between her legs and set it on top of my CLOSED legs, leaning forward so she wouldn’t have to bend.
My arm seemingly her arm, she pulled it back and shoved my hand back inside her vagina.
My plan was to make it out of New Jersey before New York City rush hour traffic began. No such luck. As I crept along, my mind drifted back to that scene. I started laughing, looking just like every other nutcase who crawled across the bridge.
Here’s to you if you notice the gift of beauty and humor in all your interactions, even the frigging eww ones.
The photo: I see vaginas everywhere.