My Baby Broke My Sex Life!

I adore my daughter Lucy like no one's beeswax. She literally brightens my day, makes me smile constantly, and has created new meaning in my life that I didn't even know could exist. She's a delight; A hilarious, curious, silly, adorable bundle of poop, farts, hunger, crying, and cuddles. And she's all mine. Well, all ours.

The bad part: I've let her completely kill my intimacy with Glenn. For those of you reading this who in anyway are related to either of us, I'd say tune-out now. There's going to be some references to our sex life here that could scar you in unpredictable ways. You've been warned.

Ok, so it all started yesterday. I was pumping gas at Chevron on the way home from work, when this creepy taxi driver pulls up, tells me I'm beautiful in broken English, and proceeds to mimic me getting into his cab. All the while he's raising his eyebrows in a "Yes? You, me, sexytime? Yes?" way. I smiled in that "Nice try, sleazeball" way, and pointed to my wedding ring. He shrugged his shoulders, got out of the taxi, and walked into the Chevron mini mart, staring back at me the whole time, in some strange effort to change my mind with his seedy grimace.

Aside from being oddly flattered and nauseated simultaneously, I immediately was grateful for Glenn. I knew I was lucky to have a kind, generous, hilarious, intelligent, and hot husband who loved me like no other. I texted him my intentions, and got home anticipating excitement that's too delectable to publish here.

I walk in the front door, and who's beaming at me through sweet potato clumps stuck to her mouth: Miss Lucy. Then, Sammy the spaniel jumps up and knocks any remaining libido out of my system, licking me with a tongue bearing breath foul enough to kill communities of small rodents.

Glenn looks up at me with a defeated sigh, and I realize: It's Not Going To Happen. Lucy ended up awake and extremely alert for the next several hours, finally going to sleep around 8pm. By the time I sang her "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star," and it's brethren "Baa Baa, Black Sheep," I was so beyond sexytime, it was pathetic.

Glenn saunters into the bedroom around 11pm, after finishing up a long evening of editing in his office. I can see the silhouette of his body along the shadows cast on the wall, and I have a moment of craving for the strength and security of his arms around me. Just then, as tiny tickles of passion start to come out of hibernation, Lucy squirms and farts, as if to say, "Ha ha, suckas! Not so fast!"

She, in fact, needed both a bottle and a changing, which left both of us semi-willing to try and keep our appetites whetted for a second chance after she fell asleep again. And yet, this too was not to be.

Mid-diaper change, Lucy suddenly looks up at me, her eyes bulging wide. Apparently she's decided it's time to play. Her giggles, wiggles and squeals indicate a readiness for her "bouncy" chair and an episode or two of "Yo Gabba Gabba" on Nick, Jr.


Awesome.


Yes, that's been the sad state of sexual affairs we've lived lately. To be honest, we haven't had a "normal" sex life for well over a year, since I found out I was pregnant mid-August 2008. To say it's frustrating is an understatement; Glenn has been trying to initiate moments of intimacy wherever he can get 'em: kisses, touches, squeezes, cuddles, and more. Usually I'm open to them, but with a screaming and stinky baby, attempts at reciprocation are usually blocked by feelings of exhaustion and irritation. And sometimes I'm just too far gone in "baby zone" to go there; Singing nursery rhymes, getting mushed carrots on my face, and creating weird, silly voices to entertain Lucy makes the transition into seductress often difficult.

I know this is the plight of married or coupled folks across the nation, nay, the world. We're not alone in our baby cock-blocks. And where does my fertile-with-neuroses mind wander, but to jealousy and fear, of course. Glenn's going to have an affair! Glenn's going to get attracted to every cute girl he sees! Glenn's getting bored with me and wants a threesome! The list goes on in my head, much to Glenn's dismay.

So, I've promised to make more of an effort to "let go" of the Lucy duty state-of-mind, and giving the same loving attention to our intimacy. Glenn's promised to be more understanding as to why I'm not able to instantly transform from mommy into temptress. Lucy has yet to compromise anything, and we're not getting our hopes up. But when she turns 18, we're getting our sex life back, dammit.


TODAY'S ROXY SHOCKS RX: Practice some "Radical Acceptance" and resign yourself to singing with me today! To the tune of "If You're Happy and You Know It." Everybody, now: If you're married with a baby, shout Hooray (Hoo-ray!), If you're married with a baby, shout Hooray (Hoo-Ray!), If you're cock blocked then you know it, and your sex life surely shows it, if you're married with a baby, shout Hooray (Hoo-Ray!)

Break Up to Break Down

"Ex-girlfriends." Few other words strike as much grief, fear, anger, pain, and drama into the hearts of men. And yet, perhaps no one has suffered more due to these two little words than the poorest of all creatures: current girlfriends.

There's a simple answer, really. Competition. Anyone who thinks the woman who used to be intimate with your man (or woman for my lovely lesbian sisters out there) isn't even remotely a threat has what I believe to be super-human confidence. In other words, you're probably a robot.

I've struggled for years with Ex-Girlfriend Syndrome. A relationship would start off great, getting to know the new beau, sharing stories about our pasts, discovering all the quirky things about each other that we have in common--things we thought no one except ourselves did. Then I'd progress to casually leaving my toothbrush at his house, stealing a T-shirt or two to mark my territory. Endearingly clingy stuff like that.

Inevitably would come The Point. There was always a moment, grilled into my memory like a branding iron in the shape of an "X", when he would mention "her" and my mind would come to an ubrupt halt; My head cocked to the side, my attention fixed onto his words like a hunting dog on a squirrel. Something in my subconscious decided that when he reached The Point my job was to gather as much information as possible about the enemy. And so, I would listen intently as my boyfriends poured out their ex-girlfriend stories. Often, these stories would turn into sagas, and my sense of security would begin to waver, waiting for the moment for him to confess that yes, he was actually still in love with her.

Ex-Girlfriend Syndrome had taken hold. I started to fear ex-girlfriends like the plague. If I saw a picture of her, I would hunt for anything resembling her face in photos he had up in his apartment, and bring up the photos at inopportune moments in a fit of jealousy. I would Google her name to see if I could scrounge up any dirt. Before the internet, I would secretly look through his photo albums, torturing myself with photos of them in a loving embrace at Christmas or Valentine's Day. Sometimes there were more racy photos, and those made small parts of my brain explode. Parts of my brain I will never get back.

My masochism truly knew no bounds when it came to comparing myself to the exes. I would compile what I felt were the traits and aesthetic qualities about her that I was sure he still loved. Then, I would go through the list and realize how I could never measure up. It was impossible to convince me otherwise, as some perplexed boyfriends tried. Others would laugh and say that I was crazy; what was I doing obsessing over his ex, anyway? If he wanted to be with her still, that's who he'd be with.

And yet, there was no arguing with my certainty that these guys all secretly pined for their exes. Even if these broads were locked up in prison for the slaughter of defenseless animals, I would find reasons as to why they were better than me. Somewhere in my sense of self, there was very serious harm done, and I found strange delight in piercing my happiness with countless hypothetical images of my boyfriend getting back together with his ex.

Time after time, my boyfriends would come to a place where they couldn't ignore my masochistic tendencies, and they would ask what the hell it was that I wanted anyway. Did I need more assurance? Was I trying to passively break up with them by saying how great their exes were? Was I basking in lunacy, needing help that only years of therapy could provide?

If you picked "C", you were correct. What I eventually acknowledged was a re-enactment of my past. I grew up with my mom constantly criticizing me, never granting me her approval or even once telling me "I love you." When I made a new friend, she would list the reasons why they were "using" me, or would otherwise soon burn me. Instead of getting into her issues and reasons for this behavior, I'll just say this: I learned to love myself the way my mom loved me--conditionally. By constantly comparing myself to my dude's exes, I undermined any chance our relationship had of surviving. If I sabotaged the relationship by rejecting myself before he had the chance to reject me, I could avoid the inevitable pain. And what better way to slowly sabotage the relationship than to focus on what I felt could be a huge threat? I had decided, as soon as I heard about her, that the ex-girlfriend would at some point come back for her man. This would leave me in a position of humiliation and rejection too painful to consider. And so, I set up the situation to happen in my mind before it could happen in reality.

Yes, I was crazy. Neurotic, if you will. Bordering on psychotic, but more delusional. I deluded myself into believing that all men think like my mom; She believed that I was conditionally lovable and that others would always find someone "better" than me. I would zero-in on the most likely candidate (The Ex), and the self-induced games would begin.

These days, I've more than come to terms with Glenn's ex-girlfriends. I actually like them. There's no need to talk smack, to feel jealous, to let my mind wander into dangerous and hurtful places. These women have separate lives from him, they've moved on, Glenn's moved on...there's no logical reason to worry that they'll waltz back into his life and try to snag him away. And I know there's no one Glenn would rather be with, anyway.

Well, Elisabeth Shue, but who's counting? And if Beyonce walked by I'd definitely get him to look the other way.

TODAY'S ROXY SHOCKS RX: We keep recreating painful relationship dynamics from our childhood until we resolve them. And we can't resolve them until we make healthier choices. What we resist persists, so if it seems like you're perpetually jealous in relationships, go get your beautiful-and-worthy-of-love self into therapy.

The Sad Girls Club

I realize at this point in my blogdom that I've spent a disproportionate amount of time writing about television. Being that I'm a mom, a wife, a student, a teacher and recently moved into beautiful Sonoma County, one might think that I would be busy mothering, wifing, studying, working, or going on a lovely nature walk in Sebastopol. One might be partially right.

I spend 90% of my day being productive and/or living life to its proverbial fullest. The last 10% is spent glued like a three-toed sloth to the couch, devouring my brain-rotting stories like a junkie finding a rogue bottle of opiates in an Applebee's restroom. I'm not saying I've ever found pills in an Applebee's, I'm just saying it could happen.

Anyway, that was a weird digression. I love my TV time. I love it in a way that would make all those "Kill Your Television" advocates out there look me up and down with a false smile, non-verbally communicating their decree that I'm just a lemming lost in loser-ville.

Among the shows that keep me riveted: Modern Family, Curb Your Enthusiasm, and Law & Order: SVU. The list is quite lengthy and arguably ranges in taste and quality. I thought I'd reached my bottom of the TV barrel when I actually found myself watching the clock so as not to miss the "Rock of Love" finale. I'm talking the sequel, folks.

No, no. No. The Bad Girls Club has revoked Bret Michael's crown, is now officially my guilty pleasure, and is also the new thorn in Glenn's side. He can't quite stomach that "bleeping" sound that accompanies profanity on TV. We both agree it totally worked with The Osbournes, and then it got old, fast.

Back to those Bad Girls. I'm caught in a weird bind with them; I want to heal their pain, but I also have schadenfreude issues (don't we all?). Therapy would ruin everything; they'd have some understanding into their collective need to constantly defend themselves, to make people think they're invulnerable, they might find histories of abuse or molestation behind their promiscuity and sex addiction, and they might even find serenity with a recovery group or four.

As someone who lives to witness people in their healing processes, finding their voices, discovering the roots of their pain in order to recover--I find a disturbingly large amount of satisfaction watching these girls writhe around in chaotic oblivion. Maybe it's because I identify with the train-wreck each girl is; I used to be a mess of a 22-year-old, and although I was never as venomous as some of these vixens, I definitely had my morally questionable moments. Or maybe it makes me feel better to know I'm not one of them. Perhaps I enjoy getting to formulate tentative diagnoses left and right, knowing that I shouldn't, but that inevitably they're not my responsibility to help...which is both a relief and a missed opportunity.


Annie, Kendra, Flo (I'm nursing a strange crush on her despite my best efforts to resist), Natalie (clearly the front-runner for Most Vile Player), Amber, Portia and Kate. Ever since Flavor of Love (which arguably started this fiasco when The Surreal Life cast members Brigitte Nielson and Flava Flav got their flirt on and spun out some spin offs), reality shows have this annoying tendency to slap nicknames on women, such as "Pumkin," "Paradeez" and "Bootz". These girls don't escape the trend, with surnames such as "The Control Freak" (Annie), "The Socialite" (Natalie), and "The Pistol" (Portia). I'm thinking this helps viewers to get a quick glimpse into the depth of these young women's psyches; a nutshell reminder about the motivations, passions, and aspirations these girls all possess. Yep, that must be it.

Above all else, these girls bum me out; I wonder what will become of them. Maybe they'll look back on these episodes and cringe, do their best to keep family and friends from watching them. Or maybe they won't make it that long. Bottom line, these are some seriously disturbed and troubled women. TV producers are making a killing exploiting people in this society with reality shows like this, and what's worse...I keep watching.

If you're even slightly curious about this delectable debacle, here's the reprehensible round-up of season four:

Beware all ye souls who enter here.



TODAY'S ROXY SHOCKS RX: For the love of Ray J., go shut off that damn TV already.

Intelligence, Schmelligence: Look At Those Cans!

I found myself in an annoying debate with the husband last night. We were watching this talk show about the idea of "friendship" between men and women. This guy, who has been "hanging out" with a friend --who also happens to be a super gorgeous chick-- has been growing ever more smitten, given his discovery that she is "actually really smart and interesting."

Ok. Let me get this straight. An average looking girl with a Mensa membership has to bust her ass to get a dude's interest, but a super gorgeous girl is instantly pedestal-worthy because --shock, gasp-- she's "smart" and dare I say it- "interesting"?

Since when is it an after thought that someone we are investing time and energy into doesn't make us yawn? Don't get me wrong, I know the intoxication factor of a hot piece of assumption: smokin' chicks don't have to be smart. They get free passes in life because they're smokin'. But, when it comes to investing time in a relationship--which this friend is clearly doing, being that he's been seeing this girl for some time now--I would think the criteria for "girlfriend" might be more than Hot.

Perhaps I'm more naive than I thought. I've always prided myself on thinking "like a guy." I know that my pre-pregnancy body circa-2006 was a big reason I got asked on so many dates. But, I also know that I was sure to spend some time intellectually sparring with anyone I was interested in. Most of the guys I've dated have put worth on the size of my brain, not just the size of my tatas, before we started spanning time together.

And yes, dumb hot chicks of the world have given hot chicks in general a bad rep. There are some utterly vapid dumbasses out there who don't give a flying fart that they can't spell what is being poured into their free drinks. But they also aren't giving a thought to the fact that their pretty pouts and sexy smiles won't get them jobs when they're past their prime and trying to survive.

And this guy was no schlub, either. He was handsome and articulate, and didn't reek of creepy geek. He also talked about being a supersmart tech wiz, and that it was refreshing to have a hot friend whom he could talk shop with. Or maybe that's the problem. Being with a pretty, smart girl is nothing new for him. Being with a spectacularly hot girl is more of an intriguing prospect. Now, make that a nerdy, spectacularly hot girl and maybe it seems the gods have been smiling especially prosperous on this guy.

My husband argued that, while there are plenty of men (and women) who think good looks and smarts are mutually exclusive, I just might be taking this talk show dude's opinion a little too personally.

Maybe I'm just pissy because I feel my youth, and with it my ability to be seen as the hot chick, slowly slipping through my baby formula-stained fingers. True, I plan on being the best broad I can be at any age ---I will do my damnedest to show what a 75-year-old GILF can look like--- but as for the 18-29 stereotypical age span when guys are biologically programmed to give double-takes and catcalls; methinks that time may have met it's expiration date.

And so, I let things like guys musing about a pretty girl who's also smart affect me. But, I'll just remember that the next time I see a guy who is drool-tastic who is also fantastic at changing poopy diapers.

Oh, wait. That's Glenn. My bad.



And the part about being a 75-year old GILF? I'm very sorry. I threw up in my mouth a little reading that phrase again, too.


TODAY'S ROXY SHOCKS RX: Hang out with someone who's really hot and find something boring and/or dumb that they do. Then tell me all about it.