You know, parenthood can be spectacularly unsexy. Now, I’m sure there are people who would vehemently disagree with me on that statement — possibly while gesturing to the Sybian lurking in their hall closet, ready to erupt into full 120 RPM power as soon as the kids go down for their afternoon nap — but as far as I’m concerned there’s nothing like living with a toddler and an infant to really put a cramp in your style. I mean, there’s the spontaneity issue, or should I say lack thereof; there’s the issue of feeling physically drained after a day of dealing with pint-sized dictators; and as the mother of two boys, there’s a nontrivial amount of head-fuckery that goes on when you deal with miniscule penises all the time and you’re suddenly confronted with an adult-sized one. It’s like . . . well, it’s a little like seeing some kind of freaky, yet faintly comical space creature. Like something in the Mos Eisley Cantina.

(”Hi, I’m an admin for a group called Exotic Sex Toy and Nerdy Star Wars References, and we’d love to have this added to the group!”)

…

It’s not all flaccidity and granny panties, of course, but these days when I think of the letter G I’m more apt to think of General Audience than spot, you know? The other day JB joked that while he’s out of town this week I should invite a girlfriend over to “help me out while he’s gone”, wink wink nudge nudge, and when I rolled my eyes and asked him who in hell he thought I could shanghai into pitching in with round-the-clock diaper changes he said no, not that kind of help, har de har hoo heh ha, and I was all, whatever with your stupid lesbo fantasy, dude, I’m staring down the barrel of another week of solo shit-shrapnel duty over here and my brain has no room for hot girl on girl action, not even if it was Angelina Jolie sporting those Tomb Raider thigh holster deals and a support team of French-speaking nannies.