I had a bad night last night. Horrible night. I haven’t had this bad of a night since I was nineteen, drunk as a young little redneck, and out in a bar, dancing on some speakers hoping to impress that brown eyed boy across the dance floor.

I impressed him alright. It was hard not to be impressed when I drunkenly tumbled off the top of the ten feet tall speakers, landed on my head with my skirt around my ears and my flowered granny panties waving hello to all the boys and girls who had gathered around to see if I broke my neck.

I didn’t. But when I stood up I managed to toss my cookies all over my brown eyed boy’s sandaled feet.

It was a bad night. And so was last night.

Not that I was dancing on any speaker for any boy, or yakking publicly on anyone’s toes. But still it was fairly horrible. So bad that the very first thing I did when I woke up was call my darling Boo to tell him about it and have him chase away the ghosts of the night before.

I had a bad dream. A very bad dream. A scary bad dream. No, it didn’t involve my children, any angels or demons or even any natural disasters or unstoppable falls from great heights.

This dream was worse. In it, my best friend and I were at a gym, working out side by side (I know…scary stuff!) when she looks over at me and proclaims she overheard all the boys in the locker room talking and laughing about me behind my back.

She felt it was her duty as my loved one to let me in on why I was the community’s biggest joke. I was horrified. I worried that I was a social misfit, doomed to live the remainder of my days alone after the public came knocking with a lynch mob in tow, took my children from me and Boo left me for a more serene, docile woman.

Begging my friend to tell me, I all but cried with fear for what I was about to hear from her.

“They all know your secret T. You can’t keep it hidden anymore. It’s for the world to know. Why didn’t you tell me? I’m supposed to be your best friend. I would love you no matter what.” She looked at me accusingly, her body language the polar opposite of the cajoling words she whispered.

“I’m sorry,” I stammered, desperately wondering which secret was outted. Did they know I snore? That I stole a lipstick when I was ten from my cousin’s purse? Or did they find out that I secretly lust after Mark Wahlberg, stemming from the days of New Kids On The Block? “I didn’t mean to keep any secrets from you, I was just embarrassed…” I stammered.

“Well your secret is out. The whole world knows you have the world’s ugliest vagina and there is nothing you can do about it. You shouldn’t feel ashamed. Not every one’s whoo-ha is a pretty flower like my own.” She eyed my vagina accusingly, wondering if it’s ugliness would spread to her own cute lady parts.

The rest of the dream was me worrying about my pink bits and if they were indeed, the ugliest pink bits to roam planet Earth.

“Well, Boo. You’ve seen a few, tell me the truth? Is it that ugly? Is it horrible? What’s wrong with my lady parts? Don’t you like my lady sheath?” The worst part of this is, I feared his answer. I was NO LONGER dreaming. Wide-freaking-awake.

“You do realize I just came off of a fourteen hour night shift, supervising a bunch of hillbillies and making sure they didn’t just get the job done, but they didn’t maim or kill themselves?” Odd, he sounded a bit incredulous as he spoke this.

“Well, ya, but the dream was really scary. It was so real.”

“You understand I haven’t slept in 24 hours, eaten in 18, showered in 16 and got laid in almost three weeks…” There it was again…that incredulous tone in his voice. How odd.

“Yes Boo, I get it. Just tell me the truth. Is my cooter pretty?”

Dead silence.

My blood pressure rose as I awaited his response. I mean, I did give birth to three watermelon sized children for him, in a relatively short period of time. How pretty could it be?

“Honey, yours is the prettiest cooter I ever saw. Why do you think I married you? It certainly wasn’t for your domestic skills. Why, your vagina rivals the most beautiful rose…”

Funny. That incredulous tone of his was gone. It was replaced by slight sarcasm and a hint of disdain.

“Very funny. Sorry I asked. I’m just having a little trouble waking up is all.”

“Why don’t you come on up here and I can show you in person just how purdee I think your vajayjay really is?”

“Have a good sleep Boo. I’m going to eat some breakfast now. Love you.” (Asshat.)

“Wait…just think of all the fun me and the lady bits could have…”

Click. Odd, I couldn’t stop myself from hanging up….

I confess though. Before I made breakfast for the kids and sat down to blog this, I did go into the bathroom and debate with myself if I should check out my girly parts with a mirror. (I’m not that bendy to do it without assistance.)

As I was reaching for the mirror, I stopped myself. After all, if I looked, wasn’t I giving the dream credence? What if my whoo-ha really is the ugliest twat in the world? Isn’t it just better to live a life of ignorant bliss?

I thought so. The mystery of the world’s ugliest cooter will have to remain unsolved until the next time I go to bed after eating pickles and cheese and drinking cheap red wine.

But I’m so booking a waxing appointment this week, just in case.