Tag Archive | sex

What’s My Manuscript Missing? (Hint: Sex)

I survived my book group meeting a few weeks ago and received some helpful feedback on my book.  The biggest takeaway is that the second half of my book is missing SIZZLE.

OHMYGOD, just writing that makes me blush.  I was hoping that leaving *almost* everything (of a sexual nature) up to my readers’ imaginations was going to suffice, but you, you greedy readers, you want your sex.

Now, I gotta deliver.

Frankly that’s hard to believe it’s missing from a book I penned because I am staggeringly sexed up.   (See how awkward that was? Now you know why my book is light on the sizzle.)

It was helpful to hear my readers say that what I have written is a love story.  That phrase makes me throw up a little (and then swallow it quickly), but it’s true.  The books that made their initial imprint on my psyche were all love stories so it’s a fitting place to start my book-writing here.

But we’re not in Victorian England anymore nor are we Puritans so it’s time to combine those two perennial favorites– peanut butter and chocolate sex and love– and ejaculate inject them into my book.

I mentioned to my therapist that I felt blocked around writing the physical part of the relationship that is the heart of the book.  Naturally, he offered me a helpful suggestion: Write a sex scene and pull out all the stops; have your characters go at it and let your imagination run wild.

Dear readers, I did that. I “pulled out all the stops” (not a euphemism) and wrote the sex scene of my life.  It was 100 words long. That’s practically a tweet.  Apparently, my imagination is a little flimsy in this area.  (Have I mentioned that I was raised Catholic? I blame the nuns for this hole in my manuscript.)

I tried again and I got it up (ha, ha) to 1,300 words.  At this rate, the book will be done in 2044.  (Preorder now from Amazon!)

However, in my effort to embrace more sexuality (so I can write the book as a sexually literate person (is that a thing?)), I am taking some pro-sex action steps.  Here’s what I’ve done so far:

  • Downloaded extended remix of George Michael’s I Want Your Sex
  • Read the portions of Fifty Shades that I highlighted last summer
  • Read my Twitter feed (you wouldn’t believe the filth over there)
  • Eavesdropped on conversations between young horny people at Starbucks (again, filth)
  • Shaved my legs (you know, to get in the mood)
  • Moved the copy of the Joy of Sex from the bottom of the pile to the middle (but closer to the top) of the pile of books on my nightstand

I’ve been busy so that’s as far as I’ve gotten.  Future steps may include actually having sex, taking whatever drug that enhances amorous feelings (cocaine? rogaine? ibuprofen?), watching MTV music videos, eating oysters, and re-reading the investigation file from the Clinton-Lewinsky scandal.

What can I say, I am willing to suffer for art.

What would you do if you needed to spice up your book?

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Something Good Happened: How The Hell Do You Talk About That?

It’s not an accident that I am drawn to blogging– I have the perfect personality for it because I am open, I am afraid enough of people to prefer some distance (like a few states), I crave connection, and I like to write.

But, there is something I have no idea how to talk about.  It’s not sex, because believe me I have some drafts in my queue that will knock your freaking socks off.  You will see those soon enough (I am waiting for my mother-in-law to lose her internet connection for a while).

Other taboo topics haven’t scared me off either.  I can talk about religion and politics and money– I keep the focus on myself and keep the tone humorous most of the time.

And you know what? I would rather talk about absolutely anything than the good stuff that happens to me.  Seriously.  A kid pooped in the tub while my husband was gone? Done and done. I’ll tell you all about it.  The New York Times passed on my Modern Love submission?  Here’s the post.

But, sometimes, good stuff happens. To me!  Sometimes I get the full night’s sleep or receive a check in the mail or find the perfect parking spot.  But you never ever hear about it.  There’s nary a tweet on my Twitter feed that shows that positive things occur to me and around me.

But they do, and if I can’t celebrate the little things here in this space, then what makes me think I am going to be ready when the time comes to tell you all that my book is being published or I got a literary agent or I found my Ugg slippers?

Gotta start with small celebrations.  That’s what my therapist said to me years ago when I was unenthused about a date with a guy who seemed boring.  I refused to celebrate that I, shut down and people-especially-male phobic me, was going to go out on a date.  “If you can’t celebrate the little things, then how you will you be ready to celebrate an engagement or a wedding or a birth of your child?”

He kinda had a point, right?

So, I have to practice celebrating accomplishments in writing.  It’s not the Pulitzer or the National Book Award, but it has my name on it and it’s a huge honor.

Here’s a front row seat to my practice:

I am thrilled to have earned the most points in the Yeah Write contest.  You might notice that every Tuesday I link up with the Yeah Write community, which is a contest (oooh, competitive me wants in) and offers me lots of opportunities to grow as a writer and as a person (that’s  my fancy way of saying sometimes I get psycho about competitive stuff).

On the weeks when I haven’t done well on the Yeah Write grid, I have spent hours dissecting my posts or crying about being a middle child who can’t succeed in life or sitting in a dark room.  Competition is tricky for me– sometimes it’s toxic.  I have hung in there with Yeah Write because I want to learn how to be better at all of it: writing, placing well, winning, losing, writing a shitty post and seeing the world won’t end, and supporting other writers even if I am jealous of them or scared of them or just plain in awe of them.

I want the good stuff in my life to be a story worth telling.  I want to bring you something more than thisshittythingwithmykidsisdrivingmenuts.  I want good things to be interesting and worthy and a story just like all the bad things.

I gotta practice.

Starting today.

So, here’s to good writing, and good news, and good people like YOU and me.

Dear Younger Self, Stop Saying The Guys Who Dumped You Were Gay

Sometimes I buck the trends, and sometimes I drag my mom to the mall to buy Jellies and chalk-striped jeans because everyone in 5th grade has them. Today, I am hopping on an epistle bandwagon.  I am referring to authors writing letters to their younger selves.  Great examples of that appear here and here.

Ever since I saw this idea, I have been thinking of what I would tell myself.  I suck at taking advice, so I don’t want to waste my breath.  I wouldn’t bother telling younger me to embrace big concepts, like Carpe Diem or Love Your Body As It Is.  I am pretty sure she would give me a ka-pow to the kisser if I took that route.

So, I took another one:

Letter to my younger self (Hey, Mrs. Price, thanks for all those B- grades on penmanship.)

Letter to my younger self (Hey, Mrs. Price, thanks for all those B- grades on penmanship.)

Dear Christie,

Here’s some things I wish you might consider sooner rather than later.

  • I can’t believe you haven’t figured this out, but you should NOT shop for jeans when you feel fat.  Go to the shoe department and ONLY the shoe department.
  • Can you please start wearing nicer bras so you don’t end up almost 40 years old with a “lingerie” drawer full of Champion sports bras from Target? Please do some leg work; you are going to get busier later in life.  Don’t make Old Christie do everything.
  • While you are sitting around moping about being single, go ahead and start good habits around shaving your legs.  I know you went to an all-girls high school, but you’re out in the real world now and that stubbly stuff isn’t a sign of anything subversive; it’s just laziness.
  • Alternatively, you can decide to go native and stop shaving.  That’s fine with me, but this is an instance where “shit or get off the pot” applies.
  • Honey, please stop telling people that the guys who dumped you were gay.  All 7 of them.  It’s homophobic, likely untrue, and makes you look sort of mal-adjusted and sexually hostile.
  • Don’t get those two kittens because you are lonely.  They’ll be hard to get rid of and you hate pets.  And also: litter boxes.
  • Consider being proud of yourself for buying a condo on your own instead of fretting about being an “old maid who no one wants.”
  • Don’t buy your first iPod at Costco. Go to the Apple Store and have the full experience.  Plus, when it breaks down, it will be harder to convince those Apple genius people to care for your sick iPod that you purchased from Costco.  (SPOILER ALERT: You will spend 87 hours on the phone with someone in India trying to fix your Costco iPod if you don’t follow this advice.)
  • Go to your grandmothers funeral even though it’s hours before the bar exam.   Missing this will leave your mourning open for years, like a parenthesis with only one “(“.  Please.   Just go.
  • Don’t get bangs. Ever.  Ask someone who loves you to accompany you to the hair salon when you are postpartum.  Tell that someone that you are NOT allowed to get bangs.  Take that person to lunch after the hair salon because she did you a huge favor.
Bangs, a No-No

Bangs, a No-No

  • Don’t be so scared of the big cases at work.  You may not be a lawyer forever, so go all-in while you can.  Ask Tina Tchen if you can work on one of her cases.  Keep asking.
  • Have more fun.* (* By “fun”, I most certainly mean sex.  You are a good girl and denying yourself pleasure won’t make you better; it just means you have sexual anorexia.   Use safety precautions, but definitely have more sex.)

Sincerely,

Your Older Self

My Husband Doesn’t Know I Am Posting Our Texts

They say that children sap all of the spark out of marriage because everyone ends up so exhausted from the maw of modern parenthood.  I have no idea what “they” are talking about.  Jeff and I have a lot to offer new (and experienced) parents when it comes to keeping those embers hot enough to make you want to toss aside your Kindle version of Fifty Shades so you can act out scenes from Dirty Dancing while naked. (And I am not talking about the “I carried the watermelon” scene, if you catch my drift.)  All you need is your cell phone and at least one serviceable thumb to text your Beloved.

Here’s how Jeff and I steamed up the airwaves with our passion the other day when Simon and I were waiting downstairs for Jeff and Sadie get in the car for our daily weekly Costco run:

(*Jeff’s comments, texted when he was trapped beneath Sadie’s sleeping body, appear in white bubbles; mine are in blue.)

Modern Day Love Letter

Love Letter 2012

It’s totally got a William Carlos Williams feel to it, right? It’s poetic in that it seems to concern solely the prosaic details of one family’s Saturday afternoon.  But if you look deeper, you can see underneath the quotidian veneer that Jeff is sending me signals about how he plans to ravage my body as soon as (1) Sadie wakes up and gets the hell off of him, (2) I get back from Costco with Simon, (3) he rinses Sadie’s urine off his body, (4) we feed the kids frozen strawberry smoothies for dinner, and (5) I take my Zoloft.

Can you see it? Can you feel it?

Sizzzzzzzzzzzzzle.

I almost feel guilty because I wonder if we are contributing to global warming with all the heat we generate.  Just in case, I contribute to Greenpeace.

Now that I have shared this intimate snapshot of my marital relationship, I have a few requests:

  • Please don’t tell Simon I referred to him as “Son,” because it sounds so impersonal– like I forgot his name.
  • Don’t tell my kids or that freaky must-buy-organic-fruit mom that we buy our strawberries frozen.  From Costco. (And, since that secret’s out, I will disclose that we blend the strawberries with Benadryl and ruffies so we can get some sleep.)
  • Don’t tell my kids or the police that I was texting while driving, BECAUSE THAT’S DANGEROUS.
  • Don’t hate me because I keep it hot & steamy with my baby daddy.

Obama-Care and Sex Explained

Please tell me that you get your news from a reputable source and not from me. If you seriously clicked here to find out about the Supreme Court’s healthcare ruling, then you should put yourself in time out or force yourself to watch Fox News all day.  Shame on you.

I did, however, make a June 28 resolution to read the whole 200-page opinion.  I am going to get on top of this by going to the primary source, and maybe I will pepper future posts with erudite allusions to the decision.  In the meantime, I am going to see which of the Justices have Facebook pages and Twitter accounts so I can follow them, just like I follow Ashton and Kelly Ripa.

But I don’t want to leave you empty-handed, which is why I am directing you to my guest post that appears today on a website I really love: Just Be Enough.  My guest post is all about sex, so check it out here.  If you hate clicking, I will summarize my post: it’s a steamy mix of positions and dirty talk– or how it’s hard to make time for my marriage when I have two small kids.

The bedroom is for sleeping

The bedroom is for sleeping

Have a great weekend and feel free to tell me how you are letting yourself off the hook today and how you are enough. For today.