all sewn up and in the vag

Devin nailed it when describing the major downstairs renovations our boy-children are capable of ... leaving vaginas something akin to Harry Potter's forehead.

So I call my father (the previously mentioned NSFW photographer) to discuss/get the scoop on my stitches since he witnessed the debacle wherein my junk was turned to hamburger meat, I wasn't completely numbed, and the doctor yanked the sutures with the vigor of the world's strongest man dragging a Mack truck. True story.

Me: So what's the deal down there? All I know is when I asked the doc how many stitches she put in she said she lost count around 17.

Daddy: Okay. You're laying down. Your clitoris is noon. All your stitches are at 6 o'clock.

Me: Excellent, thanks! (Need to get off the phone and take a shower to wash from my brain the word "clitoris" in reference to MY OWN as matter-of-factly stated by my Daddy - only to realize ... this conversation? It doesn't phase me.)

In the shower I discover some barbed wire (as a [Southern] child I truly thought this was spelled and pronounced "bob whar") NOT at the 6 o'clock post. Instead, it was just south of high noon. Sure enough, there's a tangle of Christmas lights at my pee hole. How festive!

Time to call Daddy back.

Me: Guess what we found? 3 to 5 stitches just below my urethra.

Daddy: Nuh-uh!

Me: Oh, yeah. They're present and accounted for. And probably half the culprits in the whole sensation of coating my lady bits in Bacardi 151 and taking a blow torch to them. (Seriously feels like crème brûlée-ing my crotch.)

Daddy: Guess I wasn't watching that part.

Sadly, this means there are no pictures of the 7th grade Home Economics lesson that took place at my (former) Love Oasis/ (latter) Frankensteingina.