Pinky's Naughty Bits

As well as going to the dentist in the holidays regarding my capricious, rickety tooth, I also went to the doctor for my bi-ennial Smiegal Test. You know the one where they take a smiegal of your cervicella and test it for nasty things?

“I hate going for Smiegal Tests!” I declared to my friend Kaz, at her birthday dinner (I can’t think of a better place to discuss womanly issues). “I have a retroverted cervicella and the doctor can never find it.”

“Is there anything normal about you, Pinky?” asked Kaz, her eyebrow cruelly lifted.

I think she was referring to my extra kidney lobe which I’ve only just found out about and had shared the compelling information at our girl’s lunch a couple of months ago.

“Besides,” she added. “I think you mean a retroverted uterus don’t you?”

“Oh yeah!” I gulped, swallowing my camembert and water cracker. “That’s what I meant. My retroverted utility box.”

Now I’m sure you’re wondering why I’m using such silly names for my bits but the reason is I think names for bits are… well, considerably harsh. They’re not euphonious if you know what I mean. They’re not pleasant sounding to the ear at all.

I’ve always been wary of parents who teach their kids the medical names for their privates. It just seemed so bizarre to hear a four year old come running to his mother at playgroup screaming, “Mum! Hagar Poinker just kicked me in the scrotum.” When I hear the word ‘scrotum’ I always think of turkey necks.

Whereas my boys, (having the coarse mother and all) would have cried, “Mum! That kid just kicked me in the nuts!” which is much more palatable. I mean, who wants to picture a scrotum? Nuts, provided you aren’t allergic to them, are much more savoury.

I don’t think my only daughter Lulu and I had a special word for her you know what. Maybe it was merely, ‘Your… you know what’, I really can’t remember. I certainly wouldn’t have referred to it as a V… v… vadge… oh you know what I mean. 

It’s a dreadful word and I refuse to say it.

When my brother was a toddler he called his bits and pieces, ‘Quack Quack’. He’s forty-something now and probably still calls it that for all I know. The name came around because he had a potty in the shape of a chicken. It was especially designed for boys with a chicken’s head to accommodate his dingle-dangle. 

Scotto won’t tell me what he called his but he’s goes into a paroxysm of embarrassed giggles whenever I mention the name of a certain extinct flightless bird from the island of Mauritius, so I think I can guess it.

We even give our pets’ private bits special names.

'Mum! Celine has something hanging out of her winkle!' or 'Mum, Pablo is dragging his doodle all over the carpet in my bedroom. Come and get him out of here!' or 'Mum! Willy’s out the back humping my football and he’s got a red rocket! You’ll have to buy me a new football now!' were common cries for urgent action in our house when the kids were growing up. 

And yes… I have a dog named Willy.

Pinky's Willy

So where am I going with this?

Well I just found out that after the age of seventy you can stop having Smiegal Tests. I don’t know why. Perhaps my cervicella will just fall out... or shrivel up or something when I hit seventy. But what that means is I only have to endure eight more Smiegal Tests and it got me thinking. 

You know how bloody quickly they come around; you’ve only just thrown the results from the last Smiegal Test in the bin and before you can say Sim's double-bladed posterior vaginal speculum you get a reminder for your next one. 

Before I know it I’ll be seventy and what will I have to show for it?

Nothing.

Just this increasingly, childish blog.


NB: A cervicella is actually a moth if you Google it.

Any amusing names you'd like to share?