“The real golden ticket here is the Mugworth V-Steam: You sit on what is essentially a mini-throne, and a combination of infrared and mugwort steam cleanses your uterus, et al. It is an energetic release—not just a steam douche—that balances female hormone levels. If you’re in L.A., you have to do it.”
—Gwyneth Paltrow, GOOP
Huh. This is the real Golden Ticket? BOY. I bet Charlie Bucket was really surprised when he got off the Great Glass Elevator back at the Chocolate Factory expecting his Golden Ticket to buy him a lifetime of free chocolates and a place to park his Never-ending Grandparent Orgy Bed. Instead, he was faced with “what is essentially a mini-throne” designed to steam-clean vaginas. It must have been a shock to his system, weakened as it was by a diet of cabbage soup and chocolate. (The Bucket family probably needed what is, essentially, a mega-throne, with that kind of diet.)
“But Gwyneth,” I say, and not for the first time. “What about ME?” I don’t get out to L.A. much (ever). My vagina-care routine usually involves a monthly meet-up with a pair of mustache clippers from CVS and some prolonged washcloth contact (length of time depending on how sad/lonely I feel that day).
The fact that Gwyneth is sitting somewhere JUDGING ME (legs NOT crossed, but held slightly akimbo so that the cooled air blown at her by kneeling Eskimo virgins whistles through her thigh gap and aerates her snatch) is just not acceptable. And if you’re not making regular trips to get “V-steaming,” she’s judging you, too, partner.
What do we want? Hollywood-clean vaginas. And how will we get them? CHEAPLY. Here are some ideas I had while looking at a picture of Gwyneth Paltrow’s face in one Firefox window, and the stark reality of my life as a Poor in my mind’s eye.
It’s not the size of the throne that counts. It’s what you do with it. Flush your toilet, then boil a kettle of water. Dump 2T Oregano, 2T Marjoram, 3.5T Allspice, and as many T of whatever spices you’ve got into the toilet, then add boiling water. Quickly sit on toilet. It really helps if you have big thighs here—they’ll spread out and essentially trap the steam beneath you. If you actually DO have a thigh gap, cover it with your laptop. If you want, cleanse your friend list while you cleanse your vagina. Kegel that fusty steam in and out. You are a magical marigold with a honeypot more than worthy of $0.13 of spices.
“Yes, but what if I’m a mom on the go? What if I need a way to combine my vaginal steam routine with dinner prep?” I hear none of you say. Don’t worry. Tonight, serve up an economical pot of cabbage soup Chez Bucket. Here’s a whole Pinterest board of cabbage-soup recipes, so you know it’s fresh and hip. Or it means that there’s a bunch of sad-asses out there hoping to find the magical recipe that will shed pounds without making a soup that tastes like a slow lick of an old Eastern European woman’s armpit. So, mix up any of these delightful recipes, then place the pot on the floor of the kitchen. Lift your floor-length Mom skirt (or construct one from safety pins and kitchen towels), underneath which you are bare, and drop it low over the soup pot. “Dinner’s almost ready!” you call to your family as you do a slight knee bend and face East, the land of new days, mystic experiences, and cabbage-y armpits. Blink that vagina like it’s the Eye of Sauron during hay fever season.
Nasal irrigation was invented by the Hindu Vedas, who developed the technique to help nasal crops grow. It has evolved into something that involves a tiny watering can pouring salty liquid into each nostril in turn. Well, what if, hypothetically, you filled that little watering can with Monster Energy Drink? And then what if you moved it down from your nostril by oh, about two and a half feet? And then what if you were to shake it up violently with your thumb over the spout and then, I don’t know, direct the ensuing geyser of caffeinated dork-nectar toward your Holiest of Holies? What then? This is all hypothetical. I would never recommend that you do this, but I would recommend you emailing me to describe the ensuing sensation and reproductive health results if you did.
I realize that all of these approaches are missing one thing (okay, besides the opulent thousand-dollar spa trappings, the trip to L.A., and medical/cosmetic safety measures): mugwort. What, exactly, is mugwort? Well, it’s a possibly-toxic aromatic plant used to repel moths. (There is nothing worse than a bad case of vaginal moths. You have to lie spread-eagled in front of a bug zapper until they emerge.) It’s been considered magical—Roman soldiers used to put it in their sandals to prevent fatigue—and I know I want my vagina to be a trooper, not a drooper. (I also want it to strategically slay Huns and Vandals, but so far, no dice.) OH, and also, it’s been used to induce uterine cramping, resulting in spontaneous abortion.
Whoah. Step back. Gwynnie, why you recommending I steam-clean my baby cave with some magic weed that might result in (admittedly, a really high-class) miscarriage? Do you have your degree in Herbology? I DID NOT THINK SO. I’m all for a woman’s right to choose, but I don’t think that means ONE SINGLE woman, and even if it did, I wouldn’t pick Gwyneth. This, like the tyranny of her lifestyle empire, is a very bad idea. I think it’s time for an uprising. I think it’s time that we all unseated her from what is, essentially, a whiny throne.
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