|This photo becomes relevant later, I promise.|
Sorry. Not another guest blogger. Just me, with Simpsons Tourette’s.
Actually, I think there’s something in the air lately--our air conditioner, which Jeff finally had to install once the temperatures in New York broke my are-you-fucking-kidding-me meter, makes the bedroom smell like mildew, but I also think there might be some nitrous oxide in there, because the other night I decided to ogle my own tumescent naked form in front of the full-length mirror, and promptly started laughing hysterically at the sight of my own butt crack.
(I actually exclaimed, “It’s my crack!” before I broke down completely. If you were wondering what I’ve been doing instead of blogging, there you have it.)
This slap-happy relationship I have with my perineal region will obviously take me far as I prepare for labor. Perineal is a doctor word for privates, by the way, and it’s used a lot in prenatal classes and books, because, and I’m not going to mince words here, that is where shit is going to get real in about 9 weeks And no, I am not talking about the potential for literal shit, though there is that. I am talking about the Dali-esque stretching, melting, and general surrealism that is going to be taking place.
(I was talking to my friend Lin about names recently, and was explaining that while Jeff and I do have a name picked out, we’re keeping it a secret until he’s born. “I kind of feel like The Goonies,” I said. “Like, it’s his time down there, and he doesn’t get a name until he comes out.” Lin thought for a second and said, “Until he comes up in Troy’s bucket! Which is the best euphemism I’ve ever used to describe a vagina!”)
But seriously, think about it: Let’s say you build a ship in a bottle. (I don’t know who does that kind of thing, but it seems wholesome, something to bond over with a meticulous and exceedingly patient parent.) Anyway, let’s say you build your ship, and then you want to get it out. Now, there may be a fancy way to do this without breaking the bottle, but I spent most of my childhood craft time making Spin Art and weaving questionable potholders on plastic looms, so I don’t know it. I would just smash the bottle to smithereens and then try to glue it back. Which is why lately I’ve been eyeing an old bottle of Elmer’s we keep in the pantry next to the garbage bags while I do my kegels.
Speaking of which, women start to get a lot of mixed messages about vagina fitness in the last eight weeks or so of pregnancy. I mean, I was under the impression that you want to try to train it to spring-load back into place as soon as that baby pops out. But then, all of a sudden when you get to the third trimester you start hearing about “perineal massage.” That sounds nice, right? It sounds like a back rub for your taint. BUT NO. “Massage” in this case is a gross misnomer. They should call it the perineal taffy pull instead, because what you are actually supposed to do (oh, and if you’re eating breakfast or something, and you’ve somehow gotten this far, maybe stop for a minute to reflect on the Goonies metaphor and then come back when you’ve finished chewing) is hook your thumbs inside your... Troy’s bucket and pull down until it burns. UNTIL IT BURNS. And then you are supposed to hold that pose for two minutes.
The great news, of course, is that you can have your partner do this for you if you can no longer see or reach past your belly. Because nothing says foreplay like a little vagina tugging.
I’m sorry, this post went off the rails. How did I start with an innocuous Simpsons reference and wind up writing what could pass for S&M erotica?
Oh yes, the crack.
Crack is whack, kids. Listen to Whitney.