Guilt by Association

I’ve been laughing out loud reading Philip Roth’s Portnoy’s Complaint. For those who do not know, which up until a few weeks ago included me, the novel is the transcript of a 33 year old in analysis talking about his quintessentially dramatic Jewish parents and his obsession with all things sex including masturbation.

My mom reread it and laughed aloud and thought my dad would enjoy rereading it. I refuse to be the one to recommend the book to him. I would hate for him to enjoy the book, to read the sex scenes, the time Portnoy masturbates in his family’s liver, to hear his description of a three-way with a whore in Italy and think of me, his youngest daughter, and thank me for the laughter that the book brings or the memories that it conjures.

Before I opened the first page, I mentioned the book to my brother in law who is looking for a new novel. Although less so than with my dad, I am still reluctant to pass along my copy. Nonetheless, I probably will with a disclaimer. It is too funny of a story to be kept to myself, or exclusively for the women I know.

Porn Virgins

With the recent financial armageddon and an upcoming licensing exam, my husband has been working late leaving me a lot of solo time.

I’ve been taking advantage of having the bed to myself by breaking out my trusty vibrator, not so much because I’m horny but because I can, and it’s efficient.

There’s very little tantalizing free programs on television to keep me stimulated. Most are of aged worn women and ugly tattooed men. There are a few college programs on demand but they lose their appeal as they attempt to have a plot. Although, I confess, when i was in college and the girls would sometimes watch porn together and giggle, we laughed at the ridiculous excuses passed off as plots. Turns out, when you are not watching with a group of porn virgins co-eds, a plot is not so important.

Back to sweating

I broke my gym barrier and took a pilates class today. It was so good I almost wonder why I waited so long to do it. Perhaps because I was gone for most of the summer and wanted to suspend my expensive gym membership for a few months. Either way the seal is broken and I am happy to be back at the gym.

My membership is still frozen but I can sneak in a workout after pilates if I have any energy left, which I thought I did but as I am fighting to keep my eyes open now, I realize that was a little ambitious.

My teacher shaved about five minutes off the beginning and end of the session which bothers me because I am paying for a full hour. When my outrageously expensive Upper West Side I-don’t-take-insurance therapist who believed in 45 minute hours would truncate our session, I’d calculate how much each minute cost and was not pleased. Now add hormones to the mix. grrr…

The pilates teacher is a friend of a friend but I should not be afraid to say something so maybe next week I will. Meanwhile, I’m tempted to do some tricep dips as I would love a little definition somewhere on my body.

I hate her

Can I blame the raging hormones on my recent hatred of the babysitter.

I hate that she is depleting my food. I had half a slice of the most delicious dacquoise cake in my refrigerator. In the four hours that I was gone today, the sitter felt the freedom to cut herself a piece so now I have but a bite left. Doesn’t she know not to take sweets from a pregnant lady?

I have told her multiple times not to watch television in front of my daughter and I see that she had the tv on. I do not know whether it was when my daughter was sleeping or not, but it bothers me. I’m tempted to hide the remote control from her.

Although, the other day I asked if she had seen my camera and she comfortably opened the drawer where the camera normally is and our check books and rummaged through for it. She is getting too comfortable in my home. My sister who lives in South America will offer some good tips to keep her in line.

I do not know how much of it is oversensitivity, hormones, or this woman taking too many liberties but I am not satisfied. Any thoughts on what to do?

No Milf For you

The first pregnancy I wanted to advertise my situation with a MILF in training shirt that apparently Britney Spears had recently donned. I decided against it because I could imagine my father and my brother forcing me to explain what a MILF is. But why would one wear a shirt advertising she is a Milf if she did not want people to look at her or consider her even for a moment in that sexual way?

Because it is family! A girl may pose for Playboy but that does not mean she wants her Dad or her brother looking at her.

I have always felt that my dad and more so my brother have struggled with sexual boundaries. As I’ve grown older and more confident and married, I’ve become more comfortable asserting myself or removing myself from the situation. I still do not think those two have caught on yet. My sister’s therapist tells her she is too sensitive and mine tells me that my dad and brother are inappropriate.

I am loath to admit this, but I had a very very very uncomfortable dream about my dad. I once confided in my sister about this and she admitted to having more than one equally uncomfortable dream about my brother which makes me think that my therapist is right on this one.

And the Boobs Grow On

My first pregnancy I watched my boobs grow faster than any Chia pet. the small perfect C cups that I had professionally constructed (for those first time readers, they were crafted from two droopy DDs) ballooned faster than my belly. Had they kept up that pace the entire pregnancy instead of the first three months, I surely would have tipped over. Friends even commented that they knew I was pregnant based on the globes attached to my chest.

Before I knew that I was pregnant and was fighting a fatigue, I checked my breasts. They were no bigger or more sensitive than usual and so I was convinced that everything was simply related to my period.

But the pee sticks proved me wrong and more symptoms manifested. But the boobs expanded slowly. I picked up the occasional D bra, the demis never fit for long. Until, at about 18 weeks they grew faster than a baseball player’s muscles on steroids. I am back in my 36DD bras holding in my massive sensitive heavy breasts.

I hope the growth spurt is older, until the milk pours in.