The vagina is awesome, literally; it's gorgeous, mysterious, multipurpose-functional and unique as all get out. I examined more Internet V the other day than Michelle Duggar's gynecologist, and I'll say right now that no two are alike.
If you're a parent of a child in the San Diego Unified School District (SDUSD), it's possible you've heard rumblings about the push for a new common calendar, a supposed modification of traditional and year-round calendars.
My husband is the optimist in our relationship. He's the yin to my yang. He's the glass-is-half-full to my fuck-that-glass-I-hate-that-glass-so-I-smashed-that-glass-on-the-floor-and-now-it's-empty-forever-and-you-can't-argue-it's-not.
There I was, standing amid rows and rows of Christmas decorations at Michael's. In early September. In the middle of a heat wave that buoyed my hot flashes and delivered to me a few weeks later a $445 electric bill (fuck you very much, SDG&E).
In today's pain-free state, it doesn't begin to seem reasonable that I took a $2,200 ride in an ambulance to the hospital. But it was that bad. I'd diagnosed myself with something imminently terminal, and I wasn't going to wait around for the mister to show up and find me dead.