Vodka was my drink of choice in my early twenties. Mixed with orange juice, cranberry juice, or just taken straight, I would happily sip my vodka-based cocktails through the night. I’m pretty sure it made me feel sophisticated. I was much too complicated for, say, beer, or even wine. Oh no, me and vodka, we had the hookup.
My mother found words like “fart,” “burp,” and even “kissing” to be highly inappropriate. Little girls simply did not say such things. These words were strictly forbidden, and this rule was enforced with a large bar of soap. She even went one better than the moms that rename the genital area with things like “your private parts” or better yet, “po-po.” (I mean, really, people? Po-po?)
Not my mom. My sister and I grew up having crotches. I’m surprised we didn’t consider ourselves to be asexual beings. I mean, what is a crotch anyway, besides a Barbie-style censored block of nothingness between the legs? How can we expect little girls to grow up and understand themselves as women when they’ve spend their entire life thinking the words that describe their anatomy are off limits?
There is an important difference between vulgarity and reality, and it’s something worth teaching our daughters.