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11 Aug

Catherine the Queen

Hello everybody: meet Redneck Mommy. Oh, right – you already know her. You don’t? You should. Because she is six trillion kinds of awesome. I love her.

I don’t guest post for other bloggers very often. The very task of guest posting intimidates me and causes any creativity I can muster to shrivel up and dry like the plant sitting on my window sill. There is something so overwhelming about having the keys to another’s inner sanctum that I panic with the responsibility of entertaining another’s readers.

I mean, you all came here to read Catherine, yet here I am, punking up her space and coloring on her walls. Tis a bit of a disappointment, I know to get a redneck when you’re expecting a bad mutha philosopher lady.

Still, when Catherine asks, I acquiesce. Because there isn’t much I wouldn’t do for that lady. I even let her grab my boobs as often as she feels the need, because that’s how perverted giving I am.

I’m charitable like that. Heh.

Catherine is one of my real life best friends. I love her with the heat and intensity of a thousand burning suns. I fell in love, at first with her words, then with her platinum bob and finally with her graciousness and open heart.

It didn’t hurt that she’s got a nice rack to ogle either. *Wink*

We became fast friends, understanding one another immediately, in that special way that only happens a few times in a person’s life time. If I were a man, I’d have challenged her husband for a duel, after first slapping his face with a white glove, in the hopes of winning her love.

Lucky for me I don’t have testicles and I didn’t need to smack anyone with a white glove and then run for cover as her husband walked his ten paces. I mean, I talk tough but when push comes to shove, I’m nothing but a big weenie.

We bonded over pop culture, literature and human rights. We bonded over the inevitable exhaustion and depression that creeps slowly in when your days are devoted to wiping the asses of small children while struggling to retain your identity and not slip under the waves of motherhood.

We’ve shared tears over heartbreak and loss and I’ve done my best to show her that when or if the worst ever happens and a loved one is lost, she will survive and find joy.

But what really cemented my love for Catherine was her Frankenvulva.

That’s right. Her tattered twat. Listening to her complaints of torn vaginas and battered bottoms touched me in a way no daddy blogger ever could.

Because it takes squeezing out a child through our delicate pink parts only to find your lovely lotus of love shredded like cheese through a grater to really bond with another human being.

I thought I was alone in my hoo-ha horror. I still recall, with vivid clarity, finding a small semblance of peace while sitting in a sitz bath and wondering if I’d ever be able to, or want to, have sex again.

I still recall sticking frozen ice pads in my nether regions to cool the fiery burning and wondering why in the hell I ever wanted children in the first place.

I can still feel the itch of the stitches and the sting of the scar when my husband waggles his eyebrows at me and asks if I’d like to pay homage to his one-eyed snake of passion.

I thought I was alone in mommy blogland, trying to deny the vicious war my cooter waged, when along came Catherine.

The Vagina Whisperer**.

She who talks openly and freely of damaged pink parts and va-jayjay violence.

She is and always will be my Cooter Queen.

For all of you women out there, who have suffered the trials and injuries of bringing life into this world, Catherine is here for you all, shining a light with her words upon broken pussies everywhere.

For the women out there reading her words who have never experienced the trauma of the twat, she is out there, like a light house beacon, showing the world that you can rise above being ripped in half and thrive as a woman and not just a lactating cow.

And for the men out there who will never know what it feels like to carry around a watermelon in your abdomen only to have to push that boulder out of a hole that can only stretch so far; never feel the pain or indignity of having to waddle about and relearn how to walk because some screaming cherub wanted to cling to your insides instead of crawling out like a good baby; Catherine is here to enlighten you.

Her Bad Mother, Catherine, the Vagina Whisperer**.

The true reason I will always love her.

And why I am currently sewing her a pillow with the words “Sisters of the Frankenvulva Unite.”

It is the least I can do for my Queen, the woman who whispers womanly truths no man dare think about.

*this post brought to you (with absolutely no shame) by your local Redneck.*

**This post inspired entirely by the witty and delightful Karen Sugarpants, who originally christened Catherine as the Vagina Whisperer. If you haven’t wandered over to Ms. Sugarpant’s site, please do so. She is currently fundraising to help out another mommy in need, Clusterfook . Besides which, Karen ROCKS.***