I have a stinky hooha and I don’t know why.
Mind you, this isn’t a chronic condition – but on occasion, things down south get a little…uh…ripe.
Usually, there’s a culprit. However, this time, all the usual causes have been considered and discarded. I showered this morning, I’m wearing breathable cotton panties, it’s not too hot or too humid, I have no relational residue, and I’m not due to ovulate for another week.
But alas, it stinks. It’s really quite the mystery. And, a bummer. After all, no one wants cooter cooties.
Now before you start to judge, let’s get one thing straight. Every girl gets a stinky hooha from time to time. If a female tells you she doesn’t, then there is one of two things going on.
A. She’s lying.
B. She doesn’t have one.
There is no C.
In fact, it’s so common there is a million-dollar industry devoted specifically for your “V”. Yes, your “V”. Summer’s Eve loves the “V”. In fact, the tag line at the top of their web page is “Hail to the V”. And they have a handy little reference page called “ID the V” where you can peruse “The V Glossary” or get answers to your FAQ in the “Vagina Owner’s Manual”. Such a wealth of hooha knowledge! Who knew? The best part? If you study hard enough, you can become a Vagedictorian. No, I’m not making this up. Check it out. http://www.summerseve.com/education
But, I digress.
Back to my stinky lady bits. It’s quite inconvenient, really. In the middle of a perfectly normal day, I squat down to grab something from the bottom shelf and catch a whiff. You know the whiff – there is no mistaking the waft of vag. Hell, it beckons every dog in the neighborhood. I immediately stand up and look around. Whew. All alone in Aisle 3. But, now I know about it. All day I must walk around with the skanky shadow of hooha odor.
And the worst part? I don’t know why. How can I make it go away if I don’t know why it came in the first place.
So, as with all things unknown to me, I ask my boyfriend. No, not 1Rooster. My other boyfriend – Google. (That’s a whole other post in itself) What does Google give me? A complete hooha history. Or at least the history of the douche. I now know enough about douche to be a Douchedictorian. Yes, I did make that one up. Nonetheless, I’m quite the douche expert now.
So, here’s the breakdown.
The origin of the douche is not as definitive as one might think.
In October 1891, Anthony Eugene Magoris filed for a US patent on his vaginal syringe and speculum – which included both a receiving and discharging tube. The description and diagrams are quite interesting. That’s also the same day he filed a patent for a powder blower, in which he didn’t specifically reference the V, but you gotta wonder. (For some great Google fun, do a search for speculum.)
But, before that – in the 1850s, a Dr. Kiwisch was using a vaginal douche to aid in labor and delivery. However, most uses ended in the mother’s death so we can’t really call it an aid. (Do not search this one – it’ll leave you feeling hollow inside.)
And, even before that, in 1832, a Dr. Charles Knowlton wrote a little (literally – 2″ x 3 1/2″) book for married people. In his Fruits of Philosophy he gave all sorts of advice on sex and pregnancy prevention. His contraceptive solution? Mix up a little chemical cocktail to swirl on up in there. It would wash those little swimmers right out. And, while we can applaud him for his forward thinking idea of sex for pleasure not procreation, he is most likely the Father of the Douche and the one responsible for almost 200 years of hooha havoc. And, havoc it is because there is nothing – and I mean nothing – healthy or beneficial about douching.
Anyway, back to the 19th century. In 1873, Congress passed the Comstock Law. This law forbade anything immoral – contraceptives included – to be disseminated via the US Postal Service. So the thriving douche industry ran into a little hiccup. Not to be deterred, manufacturers soon began to market it as a feminine beauty tool.
Sounds innocent enough, doesn’t it? So dainty and ladylike. Perhaps. Until you learn the No. 1 manufacturer of said beauty tool.
Yes, that Lysol.
It’s no wonder we are paranoid about our eau d’hooha. Apparently, there’s a lot riding on its fragance. Again, who knew?
And while I find all of this immensely fascinating and educational, it does not help me with my intimate odor. Thankfully, one more quick search assures me everything is OK.
After all, I’m a girl. And I’m living. Just moving around can start it all off.
Whew. Such a relief. I merely need to trade in my lady bits or quit breathing. Sounds easy enough.
Hey, maybe there is a C after all.
C. She’s dead.