A couple months after giving birth to my second son, I took a cabin-fever-induced run on the treadmill at the gym, and peed my pants. On my soaked-ass walk of shame back to the locker room, I decided it was time to see a perineum reeducation therapist. There are many sacrifices that I am willing to make while caring for two young children. But not being able to run without pissing myself was a reality to which I would not consent. My midwife referred me to a doctor who billed herself as a physiotherapist but specialized in that special axis of the vagina and asshole. The visits were covered by my insurance [...]
On August 9th, 1995, Jerry Garcia died, and I was on vacation with my new stepfamily in Provincetown, Cape Cod. It was the summer before eighth grade, probably the apex of my awkward period: oversize t-shirts, assorted yin-yang jewelry, a relentlessly troublesome T-zone.
The mourning Deadhead vibes were surely low-key in P-Town that August when compared to, say, San Francisco or Burlington, VT, but I nonetheless found the avalanche of dead-Jerry merch overwhelming. His lion’s mane silhouette was everywhere, along with the drugged-out anthropomorphic rainbow animals and threadbare lyrics about the long strange trip. I had only the vaguest notion of the music itself, but I was certain, thanks to [...]