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Welcome to the Hellmonth–Looks like we made it


Did you get that? 

My time of busy-ness is over. Hallelujah. And just in time for the holiday rush, too.  o_o

But, to cap off the month, and with the hopes that I didn’t forget anyone, my e-twin Katie is here today to talk to us about roller coasters and vaginas. 

Yes, I just typed the word vagina. 

(For the record, every time I hear or say the word vagina, I think of the stripper teacher from Varsity Blues [LOVE THAT MOVIE!] and I feel compelled to say it three times.  Weird. I know.)

And now that I’ve said the word vagina more than I did the entire time I was pregnant, I’ll let Katie take it away.

Oh hey fans of Miranda!  I’m Katie from Sluiter Nation!  When Miranda said she needed help to get through October (Hellmonth), I was all over it.  Not only did she help me out last month?  But I just really love my etwin.
I must admit, however, that she was not very helpful with what my topic should be.  And since my mind gets all wandery when I don’t have a mission, I bounced some ideas off the hubs.  He threw something out there that made me laugh, and it resulted in this email to Miranda:
“So…am I allowed to say “vagina” on your blog?  Not as in “babies come out of vaginas” but more like “dude, quit being such a vagina”.
She gave me an enthusiastic thumbs up, so here we go.  My story about how I learned to not be a Coaster Vagina.
It was the summer of 1999.  In fact, it was the same weekend as Woodstock ’99.  Some of my idiot friends were going to that, so a few of us decided instead, we would double date down to Six Flags near Chicago (we are in West Michigan).
Now, this is where this story gets a little weird.  And I am not even to the vagina part yet.
There were four of us going.  Me, my boyfriend “L”, my now-husband (Cort), and his girlfriend Trisha.
(Yes, my husband and I were bestest friends long before it was even conceivable to us to date.  And his girlfriend from way back then?  Is now one of my best friends.  We are god parents to her youngest son.)
So we drive in the thee digit heat wave to Six Flags.  I warn the entire time that while I am not scared of roller coasters, the really big ones are not my favorite.
I may have brought this up a lot.
Finally, my boyfriend says, “Kate, we are on this trip with four of us.  You cannot be a coaster vagina.  If you are, someone will get stuck riding with a stranger.  That should never happen when there are FOUR in the coaster group.  So you know what?  NO COASTER VAGINAS on this trip.  There.  It’s a rule.”
Wait.  What?
I just shrugged this nonsense off.
We arrived at Six Flags and immediately went into the park to get our Twicket (you know, the two day unlimited pass).  Then we started on the rides.
Of course we did some easy rides first.  Until Cort and L thought it would be a good idea to go on that thing where they spin you so fast that the bottom drops out and you stick to the wall.  Let’s just say we needed a time out after that.
Anyway, eventually it was time to go on some larger rides.  Cort, L, and Trisha were super pumped to go on the Raging Bull—the largest ride in the park at the time.
I nonchalantly said, “Ok cool.  I’ll grab a diet coke and be on that bench.”
“Um, Kate?  No coaster vaginas, remember?  Get your ass in line.”
Wait.  What?  Was he for real?  I thought he was just trying to be funny.
But a quick scan of their faces said that no one here was being funny.  This was serious business.  Coaster Vaginas?  Were clearly not a laughing matter.
After some grumbling, and then some more peer pressure about not wanting to be labeled Coaster Vagina for the rest of my life, I begrudgingly got in the hour and a half line.
I may have whined the entire hour and a half, debating about getting out of line and just taking the title of Coaster Vagina.
In the end, I rode that damn coaster.  And I giggled the whole way.  But not NEARLY as hard as my future husband giggled in the seat behind mine.

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