My husband nearly fainted when we found out our second child was going to be a girl.

Dead silence on the other end of the phone.

Weeks earlier my OBGYN thought he saw a penis and the look of relief on my husband’s face told the true story. Everything is going to be ok, it’s a boy.

Then a checkup a few weeks later showed vulva, no penis, and terror struck. TERROR.

His fears included, but were not limited too: will she get knocked up at 16? Will I have to kill all the boys that like her? Will she be ugly, pretty, smart, stupid? To this day he’s hoping our striking daughter needs glasses, braces, and is covered in hair.

He thinks if she’s hairy, the boys won’t bother her. He would also prefer she be gay.

Why? Easy, he’ll tell you that he is a man. He knows men. He knows how he was at 13, 16, 19, 25, 35 and he wants his daughter to have nothing to do with any of it. Period. End of story.

What my husband fails to realize is he married ME. With any luck my strong, vagina-having, self will make sure my daughter is prepared for the boys, the body-issues, the confusion between what matters more: her mind or her looks.

Which leads me to yesterday, and the can of penis worms opened by one Mr. Jason Calacanis, and his search for a replacement for Veronica Belmont, host of Mahalo Daily.

I logged into Twitter to see several people had mentioned my name to Jason as a possible replacement. Hmmm, I thought. Must investigate more. I’m not exactly a Calacanis fan after his ‘make me the #1 twitter-er’ bribe, but had been willing to listen to all those who said he’s actually a decent guy.

So I checked it out-Veronica looks like she’s done some fun stuff with the videos, totally not techy (that I can tell) but entertaining. A few minutes into my snooping and Gary Vaynerchuk twittered that Jason was live on Ustream taking suggestions for a new host. I clicked on over. I’m not really sure I can accurately describe what I found, so let me just copy and paste my twitter stream:

QueenofSpain They are going over these girls based on looks-seriously. I don’t want ANYTHING to do with that crap. It would be an Erin SMACKDOWN

QueenofSpain and I love how they all just ASSUME any of these women are just DYING to get a call to work for @jasoncalacanis

QueenofSpain Am I wrong? Am I the only one who is watching this? Sad. Sad. Sad. And RIGHT THERE is the problem with women in tech. RIGHT THERE

QueenofSpain because the guys filling in, or the guy and @calacanis is such a HOTTIE? I mean, they must be, if they are on MAHALO VIDEO

QueenofSpain I love how that’s a requirement for the girls. @lons did you submit photos too?

QueenofSpain Ugh. I feel sick after watching that for too long. Olive branch totally taken back. I don’t give a crap what he’s done.

QueenofSpain @themacmommy hell no. Not a chance in HELL. I’ll stick with organizations that actually show a bit of respect.

QueenofSpain @GeekMommy don’t be. was a great education. seriously. I mean that. all that buzz about women in tech in the fashion section? yeah. i get it

Basically I tuned in to see Jason Calacanis and his ‘JasonNation’ look at photos, declare there shall be ‘no schlubs’ and discuss the hotness level of each candidate. Jason did stipulate the candidate must have brains (how nice) but needed to be easy on the eyes.

Let’s just review who I’m watching currently in and around the web, shall we?

Lon Harris is the current co-host of Mahalo Daily.

Robert Scoble

Jeff Pulver

Jason Calacanis

Shel Israel

Loren Feldman

Steve Garfield

Gary Vaynerchuk

Those are just off the top of my head, there are many more. Now let’s go ahead and guess how many of that group would have gotten to where they are if being ‘easy on the eyes’ were a requirement? Not all Brad Pitt up there on that list. Turns out, and it’s funny really-it is their CONTENT that matters.

I’m not sure if Jason Calacanis or anyone in that chat room (with the exception of Gary who is respectful and has proven himself as such) gets what they are doing when they make looks a requirement, when it’s clearly NOT a requirement for the men.

The only way I can possibly think of to make the CEO and ringleader understand is to curse him with 10 daughters.

5 super model daughters and 5 less than perfect daughters. I’d like him to see first hand the opportunities they are afforded, the heartbreak, and the double standards they face. I’d like him to feel the pain of his daughter as her brilliance in tech and web are overlooked for a less-intelligent woman with a better rack. I’d like him to watch as his beautiful daughter is paraded on a video blog to be masturbated to by 40year-olds in their mother’s basement. I’d like him to sit all 10 of them down on the Calacanis family couch and explain Daddy’s requirements for the next Mahalo Daily host.

Whomever you hire, Mr. Calacanis, I hope she’s qualified, brilliant, and kicks your ass.

There are things in my sexual history I remember vividly. From rubbing on stuffed toys to masturbate to giving birth to two children. From seeing a boy orgasm for the first time, to learning about anal plugs and male sleeves.

I was lucky. Anything my older cousin told me about sex wasn’t locked away in my brain and repeated as truth. I knew better. I knew better because a very long time ago a rebellious woman who taught our school district’s sex education class pulled a group of us girls OFF school property and told us the REAL deal on sex. Not the watered down, censored version of what the government and your parents and priests agreed you could know. Not the fuzzy “don’t have sex until marriage and we’re not allowed to tell you about condoms so don’t ask” discussion one Wednesday afternoon in the gymnasium. No. Mrs. D. wasn’t having any of it.

I remember sitting at my desk, separated from the boys, while she began her very boring, very generic speech on how I may bleed from my crotch and I’ll need to know what a pad looks like. How my boobs will grow and I”ll get hair in places I didn’t realize hair grew. How one day, when I was really in love, married, and wanted to make a baby, a boy would be involved and something that looked like a tadpole would swim up me and pierce an egg.

It was all very vague.

All the girls in the class knew it. Mrs. D. knew it. But we sat there and listened anyway. We all KNEW there was stuff missing from this “talk”-but we girls were too shy to ask and then probably be branded a “slut” and Mrs. D. was forbidden by the law to tell us much more.

Then something happened. I’m not sure if she could see the confusion in our eyes or if she was just sick and tired of the restrictions placed upon her…but she stopped.

She stopped her lecture right in the middle of showing us our fallopian tubes, set down her pointer stick, and sighed.

She walked in front of the desk and leaned on a student’s desk in the front row.

“I’m not going to bullshit you girls. If you want to know the REAL deal with sex, and all the things you NEED to know, meet me across the street by the dumpsters after the bell rings.”

Then she casually walked back to the chalk board, picked up her pointer, and finished her very boring lecture on my innards.

Of course a giggling pack of us tentatively walked across the street when the bell rang. There was Mrs. D. waiting. She opened her purse and showed us a condom, she let us touch it and practice putting it on a banana. She told us about birth control pills, she told us about sexually transmitted diseases. She told us about abortion. She told us about adoption. She also told us if any of us girls needed any of these things, here was her home number and she’d be happy to help us. Then she closed up her purse, and walked back across the street to the school.

It took me many years to realize how brave Mrs. D. was that day. She retired from teaching that very year. I have no idea if parents found out. If the school found out. If she ever got in any trouble.

When I was in high school, I remember hearing she had passed away. I wondered how many girls she saved from teenage pregnancy by breaking the rules. How many girls she bought birth control pills for. How many girls she counseled after a boy violated her young body.

I was lucky.

Mrs. D. was truth in a world of lies and whispers and hushed conversations between adults. She told us the truth, and I swore I would do the same for my children.

Not long ago, Suzanne over at CUSS sent me an email about a new book coming out, and recommended I take a look see.The author, Logan Levkoff, sent me an advanced copy of “Third Base Ain’t What it Used to Be,” and I dove in before I could throw the box away.

Please let this be a real way to talk to your kids about sex. Please let this not be the watered down, glossed over version of public school sex ed.

I wasn’t disappointed. Third Base Ain’t What It Used To Be is a practical parent’s guide to talking to your children about sex. From making sure you use REAL words with your small children (like PENIS and VAGINA-not wee-wee and whoo-ha) to talking to your teens about blow jobs and flavored condoms. Yes, you need to talk to your teens about blow jobs, because guess what…they are getting them and giving them.

Logan gives you ways to approach the subject with your kids without freaking them (or yourself) out and teaches you how to keep the dialog open and honest. She doesn’t push her views on you, there is room for you to, of course, teach your children your beliefs…but she also doesn’t bullshit. She gives you the stats on abstinence only programs and why they suck. Why its important your teenage daughter knows how to put a condom on a penis. Why your son needs to buy his own rubbers. Why you should encourage masturbation. And maybe most importantly, why you need to get over your own sexual hang ups and talk honestly with your kids about all things sexual.

One of the parts of the book I loved, in particular, was discussing ENJOYING sex with your daughters. Yes, letting a girl know and understand from a young age that sex is not a chore. Sex is not a duty. Sex is something she can ENJOY.

WOW, what a concept. A generation of girls knowledgeable, educated with more than “vague concepts,” and prepared to be sexual when they are ready and capable of enjoyment. Not because it’s what is expected at this point in the relationship. Not to keep a boy. Not to do what all the other girls are doing. Not to see what all the fuss is about, but because she wants to. Because she knows how to have an orgasm and can expect her lover to give her one, or teach him how. She knows how to protect herself from STD’s and pregnancy.

Holy empowerment batman.

Logan also talks about teaching our sons respect, responsibility, and knowing their role in pleasing a woman.

But maybe most importantly, the entire book discusses how YOU, as the PARENT, need to be your child’s MAIN SOURCE for all things sex. Did you squirm in your chair a little? Ya-you are no longer absolved by way of some 7th grade health class. Nope. You get to be Jr.’s sex educator, and let’s face it…you should be. From their little, toddler, rubbing on stuffed animal years to their “ohmygawdpleasedon’tknockupyourgirlfriendinhighschool” days. YOU get to be their guide.

So if you are a bit out of touch with the current lingo for going down on a girl or blow job parties (uh-huh-they have them) pick up Logan’s book. She can help.

You might even learn a few things.

I found my first gray hair.

On my va jay-jay.

Not on my HEAD like a normal person. No, Queen goes gray down there. Fantastic.

Just call me grandma crotch.

Admittedly I noticed this awhile ago, but i thought it was a fluke. I thought one, odd hair sprouted up in between waxing sessions and it would never be seen again.

I’m due for a wax and I now have THREE gray crotch hairs. THREE. 1.2.3.

What if my vag goes gray and my hair stays normal? I mean, totally dying my hair on my head anyway…but NOT the point.

I’m really unsure how I feel about this. Getting a gray hair is supposed to be a little unsettling, sure. I’m 32. Gray hairs will occur.

I just wasn’t expecting it to be on my vagina.

Does this mean I have an old crotch? What does this say about me?

All I know is all three of those puppies are coming out on Friday and with any luck, and many, many waxing sessions, they will be never seen again. Ever. Ever. Never. Ever.

If I didn’t wax, what would I do? Grow OLD IN THE CROTCH gracefully?

Just going to get waxed and try not to think about it.

Or going to melt down and have a midlife crisis. Can you have a midlife crisis at 32?? Over a graying crotch?

Guess we’ll find out.

Its our new diaper change song. She made it up. All on her own. CLICK THIS.

Up until about 4-6 weeks ago, my daughter was nothing like me. She was sweet and quiet and shy. She picked flowers and sang to blue birds perched on her finger. Yes, the bluebirds harmonized with her.

I was confident she was going to be one of those sweet, nice, sunshine smile kind of girls. The kind and gentle voice of reason to her slutty, stupid girlfriends. Studious. Polite to a fault. Teachers pet. You’re getting the picture here, right?

Well, apparently at 2 1/2 years old she’s just NOW decided that halo-polishing baby I knew was just an act. We’ve entered classic terrible two territory with the “NO!” and “I DO IT MYSELF” but with a Princess Peanut Punk as Fuck TWIST-she’s got a hair flip, eyelash bat, head cock thing going on that scares the bejeeezus out of me.

She is going to CRUSH men. CRUSH them.

In the meantime, she’s crushing me. I tell her “no” and I get an “I want DADDY!” in response. I say “stop that right now” and I get a “NO Mommy” then she grabs my cheeks and kisses me on the lips. As if to say, “I’m not going to do what you say, but I’m cute and loving and I will at least give you a nice kiss before defying you, silly woman.”
I’m fucked.

Time outs are not working. Taking away toys seems to only fuel her evil. I took away a beloved baby and she said (and I’m not kidding here) “pffffffffffffft.” She pfffffft’d my punishment and walked away.

I keep reminding myself we went through this with Count Waffles, and he’s now a model citizen. I keep telling myself its just another phase and it will pass.

In all honesty, I’m not sure. The hair flip, head cock, eyelash bat thing-is beyond “phase.” Its possible I inadvertently taught her how to work a man. She’s using it against me. She’s using it against her father. She’s using it against the world.

I blame myself of course. I obviously showed her my wily ways. I didn’t realize she was soaking it in, but…there it is. OR, maybe its just in the DNA? She’s got some female Queen-gene that helps her pout her lips and lean her head on her father’s shoulder at JUST the right, somewhat evil, moment.

What I need to remember here is that I’M the Queen. I’m the ALPHA female in THIS house. I will not fear her. I will not give in to her. I’m not going to fold at a mere eyelash bat, sulk episode in my kitchen.

She can’t make me.

There is a Barbi pink bottle of nail polish sitting on my counter mocking me.

Fucking pink nail polish.
I bought it on a whim while picking up some prescriptions at the drug store. I had this fleeting thought that it would be fun to paint my daughter’s nails. Or for her to paint mine.

Then I got home and my brain kicked in, and putting hot pink nail polish on a 2-year old seemed completely out of the question for about a dozen reasons. First and foremost, last I checked she was 2, not 12. I rail against ear piercing for babies and push-up bras for 2nd graders, and in a moment of insanity I somehow thought nail polish was OK for a toddler.

So now it sits there, on my counter, laughing at me. Another big, fat, black mark on my feminist card. We’ve been sexualizing these little girls for so long that it nearly got me. ME.

I’m so ashamed.

Maybe because it wasn’t as blatant as a t-shirt with a promiscuous saying. It wasn’t a thong for a 3-year old.

It was just some pink nail polish. Is nail polish the gateway make up to fire engine red lipstick? Is pink nail polish a statement on a 2-year old? If anything, I think it says “my mother is a fucking moron who put this on me to whore me up.”

Or am I just over doing it here? Is it just a bit of “play” on a 105 degree, stay in the a/c kind of day? Am I thinking too much? Is this just what little girls do? Or just what little girls do because their mothers think its cute and fun and girlie.
I don’t think so. I think if it were not an issue to use my brain over, that nail polish wouldn’t still be sitting on that counter. Mocking me.

I won’t let my son have a toy gun. I know he’ll figure it out with legos or a stick soon enough. So why would I encourage the whole “grown up” look on my daughter? She’ll figure it out soon enough and be demanding it all on her own. Without my help.

So what do I do with this hot Barbi pink nail polish on my counter? I think I’m going to leave it there. As a reminder. This little girl isn’t going to grow up too fast. Be sexualized too fast. Too soon. No. Not even those little nails. I’ll let the bottle mock me. Maybe we’ll bust it out for her sweet 16. Until then…it stays on the counter.

Sigh. Sadly, Karen and I will not be going for her crotch torture extravaganza. As it turns out, we received inside information her crotch waxer was, shall we say, sub-par. We were advised to take her hairy cooter and RUN.

So we got pedicures instead.

For the first time my loving husband raised an eyebrow at one of my recent parenting decisions.

He wanted to know if the children were in the room during this week’s open up and spread ‘em exam at the OB/GYN.

Not only were they in the room, but they had lollipops and front row seats.

And why shouldn’t they? They see my crotch and it’s bits daily. Both my children know what tampons are and where they go. They’ve seen the insertion. They’ve played with the string.

My loving husband casually mentioned that maybe, just maybe, Count Waffles is nearing an age where he should be left out of these family outings to view the vagina. Maybe, just maybe, it’s time for him to learn a little less about his mother’s love hole.

I laughed at the Kaiser. And said, “Where should I put them next time? The hallway??” And while my husband is pretty open about these things, I could tell he wanted to say more…but stopped short of actually asking me to refrain from bringing our son to pap smears. He just wanted to plant the seed in my brain that our little boy may not want to remember his mother’s crotch later in life. He just wants to spare him that horrible mental image.

Point taken. But I’m also not going to have it be some big mystery to him. Or some HUGE deal. It’s a woman’s body. No biggie. There are the boobies and there is the crotch. The end. I can’t imagine I’ll be bringing them to pelvic exams for much longer. Or maybe I will.

Think of it as a homeschooling version of sex ed. I could make textbooks and everything. Queen Crotch 101. Then we’d have Kaiser Penis 101. Poo-hole (in honor of a certain St. Louis guy who plays my beloved Detroit Tigers tomorrow) 101. The Noise in Mom and Dad’s Bedroom 110. Birth Control or Death by Queen 102. Princess Eggs and Count Sperm 200. Soon to be followed by Please Be Gay 300. And Back Seat Manners 305.

What? Like you wouldn’t totally take one of my classes. The Art of the Blow Job is for those of you working on your masters.