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"A colonization?" I say. "Bwaaaahahahaha!"
Doc stops mid-sentence and stares at me.
I say, "Bwaaaahahahaha!" again, like a fifth grader, and then I add, "Bwaaaahahahaha! Seriously, Doc, that is so a blog post."
Well, come on. A colonization? In my vagina?
I can only imagine thousands of battle-weary farmer Johns, storming the valley with long-barreled muskets to sack Fort Hoohah. The unsuspecting natives are overrun 13 ways to Sunday and sent packing with just their loincloths, and suddenly Captain Flora's plucky pioneers have infiltrated the countryside, erecting little log cabins and rowing and hoeing a flourishing cotton crop. Say, how many settlers you think can fit into one vagina anyway, pilgrim?
Naturally, the first thing I did was Skype my eldest daughter, TG. She's not too old for her mama to explain the birds and the florabees. So what if she's had three kids? I've had four, and colonization is news to me. I must prepare her.
TG: Mom, you're talking about your vagina?
Me: Yes. And the flora.
TG: I don't want to talk about your vagina, or . . . that other thing.
Me: Flora. Not just my vagina, but yours too. And your sisters'. All women's vaginas. And the flora that's already in there but gets all crazy and greedy and starts land grubbing—
TG: Mom! You're talking about vaginas.
Me: Well, only cuz you have one. And I have one.
Me: What? You just don't like the word. Vagina, vagina, vagina.
Criminy. Who doesn't want to be forewarned, The flora are coming! The flora are coming!?