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December 18, 2010

Sister Janina Vagina weighs in with her thoughts and reflections on a frigid November day in the year of her Husband, 2010.

Hello, sinners.  It’s me, Sister Janina Vagina!  I have met a lot of certain male sexual organs in my life (and no, dears, I don’t mean penises, I mean “dick-heads”) before I became an official nun.  While I was attending the Holy Convent of Emasculation, I could not pay the remaining balance of my bartending school loan with Jesus Dollars.  (Now, I have to remind you, dears.  Don’t confuse the “J” and the “Y” thing.  I’m Polish and the “J” is pronounced like a “Y”, so follow along using correct pronunciation, even if it’s just in your big, round head.)

I spoke to Father Rock (named “Rock”, I think, because he was built like a brick shit-house) and asked if I might do some work for his parish for a little sumpthin’ sumpthin’.  He agreed, but may I say how incorrigible that man was to work for!!  I spoke to my husband, The Lord, and asked him to intervene, but I guess he wanted me to really figure this one out on my own.  I mean, for Christ’s sake, Father Rock was so strict that even spontaneous stigmata was grounds for immediate dismissal!  A girl can’t help it when she’s bleedin’ from the hands and feet!

Anyhoo, my job was to polish the church brass with a loincloth worn by Mario Lopez that was blessed by Holy Water obtained in some gay bar in Greenwich Village.  The very act of doing this reminded me of when I was but a young girl in Poland.  My mother would dust, scrub and polish all around my father as he sat on his favorite chair whittling bongs from cedar.  She used to say to me, “Janina, (stay focused, the pronunciation is “Yanina”) I went ahead and married a Vagina when I was but a young woman.  I then went on to have 2 more Vaginas of my own.  Don’t do what I did, Janina.  Don’t have anymore Vaginas, and for Christ’s sake, don’t marry one!”  Words of wisdom from that woman.

So dears, I decided to become a nun.  My only sibling, my sister Regina Vagina, also took my mother’s words to heart and became a nun as well.  Although we are both nuns, my sister opted to work on the rez out in New Mexico, but she’s been hitting the peace pipe a little hard these days.  She signs all her letters to me with her Native American Indian, “Breaks-Like-The-Wind”, ‘cause she’s a real airbag, all right.  She thinks she’s freakin’ Kevin Costner in the Wild West buffalo movie he made.  I try to bring her back to our common upbringing in Poland with memories.

I remind her of our tradition where we kiss the head of a reindeer and whisper the name of the person we are wishing blessings upon.  We had kissed probably about 17 reindeer a day for a period of a month, which caused quite a bit of chafing on both the reindeer and Janina, let me tell you.  We wore a lot of American Chapstick back then (and still do, God bless that company), so these dear, sweet reindeer had about 23 layers of wax on their tender heads.  Regina suggested we just pop wicks in the middle of their heads and light ‘em up for ambiance.  (She was always the family outlaw.)

There were days in autumn in Poland when the sun was setting and the sky looked like a pastry made by Martha Stewart on acid.  The beautiful sky would kick me in the backside like so many of my silly goats who harbor resentment against this old woman because they want me to share all my sugar cubes and have me make scratches with my fingers under their chinny chin chins.  Silly goats.  My father would love for me and my sister to treat him like goats, but this never happened because the goats didn’t follow us from room to room like really bad luck complaining the whole time about what they could have been when they were young.  Goats are just happy to be goats!  (Always lessons to be learned from animals.)  The beauty of being on this magnificent earth with nature and animals, curiosity and learning is the gift that my now husband, The Lord, has given to all of us, and even to my father (my biological father, not God the Father), although he did not always realize the gift of life, probably due to his frequency of heartburn. 

Every summer, I would find a sweet, white duck by our pond, spread my arms open wide, and hug the poop out of that bird.  There is nothing so sweet as the love of friendly poultry.  By this time, the damn reindeer and I had made a truce that Janina will only blow kisses from a distance to prevent the whole raw, chafing thing, but just for a short time until my new case of cherry Chapstick from America arrived.

Ahhh, those were the days, dears.  My sister can’t seem to get past her notion that she isn’t Polish anymore, but a new kind of Native American Indian called the “Cheroquois”.  What the hell is a “Cheroquois”?  I tried to be supportive and said maybe this is her big chance to learn to work with pottery, turquoise and silver, and make something of herself, ‘cause “Breaks-Like-The-Wind” isn’t going to be self-sustaining by smoking peyote with the tribal shaman all day.  Yeesh!