Asian Spice, Knochers and I all got together Saturday night for the official viewing of “The Notebook.” In case anyone doesn’t remember, the two of them went into estrogen panic attacks when they discovered I’d never seen the film that, unbeknownst to me, makes a woman a woman.
When they found out, there were dropped jaws, raised eyebrows, looks of disgust. At one point I got slapped. First by Spice and them immediately after by Knochers. And then again by Spice. That’s when Knochers demanded to know if I had a vagina and the two of them stared at me like some kind of impostor while I contemplated my answer. DID I have a vagina?
Well, if I didn’t then, I sure as hell do now. That’s right, I not only watched the flick, but I shed a freakin’ tear, too. A big fat one that wobbled down my cheek slowly but surely. As soon as I touched Kleenex to skin I expected some kind of celebration. Balloons in the shape of vulva falling from the ceiling; A woman with big hair and a sparkling gown bobby pinning a tiara on my head; A giant laminated card with the letter “V” on it, presented by people in a pink van. Ya know, nothing major. Just a small gesture to signify the cross over.
Instead, my initiation consisted of watching the DVD special bonus features. I’ll have you know that the movie would’ve been far better with about eight out of ten of those deleted scenes. Whoever put Ryan Gosling’s naked ass profile on the cutting room floor should never work in Hollywood again.
I know because my vagina told me so.