Aug
6
Not like the books
Filed Under Uncategorized | 92 Comments
The thing I mostly remember about sex during pregnancy is how spectacularly unfair it seemed that while I was in the midst of this uncomfortable, ungainly, and totally selfless physical endeavor; this mammalian blimpfest that was all about the gift of life, which, by the way, was not exactly a gift for ME in the sense of, say, a nice new pair of earrings or shoes or something; this slow expansion that I had to carry out all by myself while my husband merrily walked around unfettered by distorted belly and wobbling upper arms and humiliatingly inflamed tissue erupting from his pooping region; I would also be expected to give it up.
Out of all the stacks of maternity books littering every surface of our house at that time (I read them obsessively during my first pregnancy with a dry-mouthed nervous fervor, positive I’d eventually discover the chapter that discussed how sometimes babies would simply explode in utero and that the first sign of such an unspeakable catastrophe was an inexplicable craving for liverwurst) which JB delicately ignored, the one piece of so-called “information” he somehow managed to retain was that after the gaggy exhaustion of the first trimester, pregnant women got really horny.
“Not necessarily true,” I told him.
“But—”
“No.”
“I bet you just—”
“No.”
“But the book said—” he’d start, and I’d wildly flap a hand around my body, both to indicate that he observe and recognize my general state of disrepair, and also to dissipate the odor of my most recent bodily emission. Liverwurst, jesus.
Between the aching boobs, overtaxed bladder, digestive issues, unpleasantly-located skin tags, creepily visible blue veins, puffy cankles, and sinuses that essentially sealed completely shut for eight straight months and forced me to breathe through my mouth with tongue slightly extended, I didn’t exactly feel as though my body was a wonderland. A loaf of Wonderbread, maybe. I couldn’t identify with the soft-focus gently-smiling women in the maternity books (inevitably sporting, it must be said, a protuberant mass of retro-styled pubic hair) who cradled their ripe bellies and were probably up for some meaningful side-position spousal action whenever their loving husbands so much as lowered an eyelid in their direction.
I also had vague concerns about the collateral damage the baby might sustain during a vigorous bout of lovemaking on our parts. I realized the absurdity of my thinking, yet I couldn’t help picturing our future child and the permanent indentation in his skull. Perfect for holding a small handful of M&Ms, but difficult to explain, this malformation would draw stares from the other children and grow unpleasantly moist during rainy days—all because Mom and Dad were watching True Blood one night and got carried away by all the smutty vampire scenes.
“That’s . . . uh, flattering,” said JB when I confessed my fear of Fetal Battering Ram Syndrome. “Also, insane. But if you’re really worried about it, I have a perfect solution.”
“This isn’t the thing where you offer to take my temperature, is it?” I said.
“Of course not, honey,” he soothed. “I was just going to say that I know you’re tired and I know how much work this is, and I want you to know that I’m here for you.” He reached out and held my hand, stroking my fingers.
A hormonal surge welled up inside me, and I sniffled in gratitude. “Thanks.”
“I want you to know,” he said, staring deeply into my eyes while I basked in the purity of the moment, feeling our newfound bond as partners and soon-to-be-parents. My lover, my best friend, the father of my child. “That a blow job is always a welcome option.”
Aug
4
Rage Against the Meshugenah
Filed Under Uncategorized | 19 Comments
A while ago I read an advance copy of Danny Evans’ book, Rage Against the Meshugenah, and I’m glad I didn’t stop to tell you all about it then because now I can say two things: 1) it’s damn good, and 2) it’s released, so you can buy your own copy right now.
I don’t know if you read Danny’s blog, but if you do you already know he’s a great writer. A great blog writer does not necessarily equate to a great book writer, but in Rage Danny seems to effortlessly shed the short, contained-burst format of blogging and rides out the challenge of telling his story in chapters that keep unfolding, keep you reading long after the bedside lamp should have been clicked off for the night.
Danny’s story is a personal one, of depression and darkness and through it all, his signature humor that is never lost. I fell into this book not only because of his honesty, clarity, and occasional laugh-out-loud hilarity, but because I know this story all too well from the years I spent in the grip of the bottle. Danny and I may not have been run over by the exact same train, but I suspect we have both endured the same bleak window view.
Danny is a coarse, foul-mouthed sumbitch who would probably wither and die without humor in his life, so of course I like him. He’s also been immensely helpful and supportive to me when it comes to writing and publishing, and I’m eternally grateful for it. If you ever see a printed book out there in the world with my name on it, his will be in the acknowledgements section.
His first book—and I bet it’s not his last—is funny, insightful, merciless, and real. And ultimately, hopeful. I think you’ll enjoy reading Rage, and I hope you check it out.
Way to go, man.
-
My product review site:
[