Unintentionally Sexual

Injured. Injured by cake.*

Note to Everyone: Please benefit from my misfortune when I say, having excepted yourself from processed sugars / candy / junk food of any kind, it is a bad idea to have a whopping great wedge of cake for lunch. I think this will be helpful to all, not just those with rampant hypoglycemic problems in the family. Ow, my body.

* * *
That’s as far as I got yesterday. I sat and moaned about the stomachache, and then forwent the gym for some stretchy pants and my couch. I think I can safely say: no more sweets for me. You learn these things the hard way. As much as I love how adaptable the human body can be, it’s a real bitch when it learns what it can live without, and then rejects those things violently. Hoo-ray for health. So today I hit the gym extra hard, extra cardio and such, to make up for it. What a pathetic whiner I am.

I think it’s the weather. Today is the seventh day in a row it has rained, and although there have been breaks in the downpour, there has been no sun for a week. None. And these spring-weather shenanigans are supposed to continue for another week. Two straight weeks of dreary, grey, COLD weather. No wonder I can’t get it up to work out; I can barely write anything worthy of posting. I don’t know if I can make it; the only thing I want to do—and have wanted to do ever since last Tuesday—is read my book on my comfy couch with a big ol’ mug of soy chai, which is all that should be expected of anybody when the weather is inclement.

Ok, as long as I’m not really talking about anything today, will somebody for the love of God date my ex-boyfriend? He’s a fairly nice guy, if you like ‘em gawky and weird, loves to cook, and has pet reptiles. Please date him so he’ll stop calling me. Nothing’s more awkward than turning a man down for the umpteenth time because his lack of boundaries has caused him to discuss his porn addiction as you’re standing in line to buy a skirt at H&M. He’s a good guy, but sad and desperate. He’s tall, respects his elders, and makes good money (not that I approve of that last as a selling point, because I don’t. I’d be horrified if somebody pimped me to their friends using that tactic. Or mentioning what car I drive; I hate that shit too). Please. Somebody.

He’s starting to ruin my pornographic dreams about Jake Gyllenhaal.

On another sex-related topic:

MY LITTLE SISTER: Would you have Jon Stewart’s love child?
ME: Yes. Wait… yes.
MLS: What was the “wait”?
ME: How many times do I get to have sex with him?
MLS: As many as it takes, I guess.
ME: May I remind you: Mom had six children. Her mother had six children.
MLS: Oh. True.
ME: I wouldn’t go through the agony of childbirth for having sex with him just the once.
MLS: Which would be all it takes.
ME: I could shake his hand and get pregnant.
MLS: We could see his name in the paper and get pregnant.
ME: He could possibly be impregnating me whenever I watch The Daily Show.
MLS: Oh my god—I watched The Daily Show last night!
ME: (GASP!) Did you use protection? Sunglasses? Did you watch the reflection?
MLS: NO! How was I to have known?!
ME: You’re so pregnant with Jon Stewart’s baby. He’s yo’ baby’daddy.
MLS: Actually, I don’t think I am pregnant.
ME: Why not?
MLS: I didn’t watch the whole thing—I turned it off before he was done.
ME: That’s not as effective.
MLS: Now you tell me?
ME: Hey, Mom only told me when I was nineteen.

Beedoo’s Book Club:

Finished: Bee Season. OK, let me tell you something: Writing about the desperation and emotional solitude of what appears to be a normal functioning family is not a way to write a good book. Many people think it is, but it’s not. It’s just depressing. If I read one more lousy “dream deferred” book where the main couple is unsatisfied with one another but don’t want to do anything about it and continue to live lives of general apathy (and have lousy sex in great detail;*** that seems to be a driving force in the “bad relationship / unfulfilled destiny” model), I’m going to have to watch Jane Eyre every night for a month to get my romantic ideals back in place.

And if the main storyline is about a spelling bee, it’s not going to be inherently gripping; you have to make it so. I was un-gripped.

The only redeeming quality (again) was the description, the general writing style. It’s basically the reverse of the last book I read—if the subject matter had been different, it would have been pretty good. I didn’t see the point, and maybe that’s my problem. Years and years of an English major will drive you to identify the theme of a book by the time you’re a third of the way through. By the end of the book, you expect the theme to be completely evident and have come to its natural end. It didn’t. The father has been disappointed by every member of his family by the end of the story, but nobody is any happier. The mom goes into a nuthouse. The son becomes a Hare Krishna. I guess the story is about making yourself complete, and whole, and perfect—and how impossible it is to do that in a typical American setting. That’s what my paper would be about if I had to write one.

But since I don’t, I will say that this book was agonizing to complete. The concept could have been covered in a novella, or even a short story, much more artfully. I feel like many of the chapters were just filler in between the action—and again, if that was purposely meant to convey the daily tedium endured by the characters, then well done. I felt it.

Beedoo’s Book Rating: 9 out of 10 times, I wished I was reading The Lovely Bones instead, child murder / mutilation notwithstanding.

* After ‘uterus’, ‘cake’ yields the most hits on this site. My first album should be Uterus Cake.**
** Ugh. No it shouldn’t. Gross.
*** Which… I’m sorry, I don’t come home from a long day of not getting laid to a book containing the phrase “his limp, ineffectual penis”. The hell?


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