The newest addition arrived in fine style on Memorial Day. We named her Charlotte Bernadette for our friend, Charles Bernard Kitowski III, who was killed in Afghanistan in 2007. The circumstances surrounding her name are remarkable. A boy would have automatically been named Charles since all of our departed male relatives now have namesakes, but a girl presented a little bit of difficulty in terms of namesakes because women in our family simply don't die.
One name at the top of my girl list was Ann-Charlotte, but since Charlotte is the female derivative of Charles, we began thinking we might name a girl for him. I'd never considered Bernadette, but I thought it was pretty so that name combination quickly rose to the top. I'm kind of ashamed to say that I didn't think about her being born on Memorial Day. Her due date was June 5th and I was consumed with worry that she was going to be born on the birthdays of two relatives I dislike (missed both). There were a few other names I was considering including the original Ann-Charlotte, but when she was born on a beautiful Memorial Day morning, there was simply no other option. You don't ignore the signs.
And now for the gory details. Gentlemen, you have been forewarned.
My mom and stepdad made an impromptu trip to see us, only planning to stay for the day. Somehow I convinced them to spend the night and leave in the morning. 4:30 am, I woke up with those strange slightly burning contractions that everyone will tell you to go back to sleep for, but which Jethro and I know could very well Mean Something.
"Jethro. Something's Happening."
"Mpff Mpff. Ok. Let me know."
I went to the restroom to pee and felt somehow drippier than usual. It seemed to be a little blood and some clear fluid. CLEAR FLUID???!!!
"Jethro. Jethro. JETHRO!"
"Mhhh? Huhh? Huuh? What?"
"I think my water broke. I'm calling the midwife."
"Ok. I'll get the bags."
I called the midwife and told her everything. She asked about contractions and I said they weren't bad but that didn't actually mean anything the last two times I gave birth. She said she'd head right over.
I went to go wake up Gwennie and Emma. They scrambled around like newbie firefighters at their first big blaze.
I went to wake up my mom and stepdad. Turned out I only thought my water had broken. Woosh.
"Ok. Let's go. Nobody panic. BUT STOP WASTING TIME!!!! WHERE IS GWENDOLYN???!!!"
With Gwen finally on board we set off.
Jethro was the picture of calm. But he did turn on the hazard lights.
THE BIRTHING CENTER
We got to the birthing center and it was quite dark. I'd been afraid we'd beat them there. But the student midwife arrived within minutes and we got settled.
The main midwife arrived and checked me and I was only 4 cm dilated which surprised me a little. I thought I would have been further along. But I was actually pleased because I hadn't missed my window of opportunity to have a water birth.
They said they'd start the tub when I was around 7 cm. I said fine, but to check back fairly often since I go quickly. I know they didn't quite believe me since I wasn't having terribly strong contractions, but they humored me. I surprised them by being at 7 cm about half an hour later.
THE TUB
While the midwives may not have considered them strong contractions, I did. As soon as I hit 7 cm, they got much harder. I can't even begin to describe how good the water felt. All that pressure that had been on my back was lifted. The light was dim, everyone moved slowly and softly. Jethro sat beside me, quietly holding my hand. Muscles relaxed, I almost fell asleep. The contractions stopped for a little while, but soon picked back up again. They were painful, but not unbearable. I breathed through them easily, giving the impression that I was good at this kind of thing and not the deranged hysteric I was about to become.
THE BIRTH
The contractions got harder and I asked to be checked again. I was at 9.5 cm and completely effaced. She was still a little high up and they said if I pushed a little I'd dilate the rest of the way.
I did.
Oh fuck.
I don't like pushing. And then I couldn't stop pushing. And then I couldn't get her head out.
It wasn't that long. Maybe half an hour. But during labor and delivery you are just not moving in regular time. The labor was about 5 hours long, but seemed to take minutes. The delivery was 30 minutes long but seemed to take hours.
I kept screaming that I couldn't get her head out. I prayed and thrashed and yelled and begged, probably just like a man if men could give birth. Finally the midwife told me to sit up and hyper extend my legs. I panicked some more because usually they don't tell you what to do. But I did what she said and the baby's head finally popped out. As soon as her head was out, I knew it was over. Nothing is as bad as a head. She was born right away after that and they gave her right to me.
I was still crying from trying to get her head out, but it turned right into crying because she was so sweet. Her eyes were open and she just cuddled softly right into my arms with her little face pressed softly against my neck. The water was still warm over both of us and we just sat and rested for a few minutes.
THE AFTERMATH
Maybe the third baby is different. I was overcome with love for her immediately. With my others I guess I was too panicked or maybe even too young for that feeling to overshadow me completely right at birth (it did eventually, accompanied by much weeping and feelings of inadequacy). But at a birthing center where everyone is concentrating on this moment and not worried about other things going on at a hospital, it was amazing. The pain was real and terrifying, but once it was over, there was nothing but a sweet little baby to be cuddled and loved by everyone.
I did need a couple of stitches which were taken care of fairly quickly. She came out face up, shoulders out, which, while not technically breech, is a position that is not optimal and the midwives said is the most painful. I said, "Good, because that's what I'm telling everyone anyway."
The student midwife was so cute. She told me how nice it was that I kept reaching down to feel the baby's head and how encouraging that must have been for me. I didn't have the heart to tell her that I'd been trying to rip her out with my bare hands. You just can't know some things unless you've been through them yourself.
But Baby Charley is a joy and a love. I have a million nicknames for her and her sweet sisters are besotted. Even Jethro, stoic that he is, is enamored. He asks to hold her and I'm reluctant to let her go, which I must say is new for us. I thought she would be the last, but she makes me want another. And I think that's high praise for any baby.
Friday, July 13, 2012
Sunday, March 11, 2012
The Immortal God-King
So the mildly hoped for son and heir is not to be. Unfortunately the news coincided with the death of our last male rabbit leaving Jethro once again, the sole representative of his gender in the family. This resulted in a night of heavy drinking culminating in a rather stunning display in his underwear at the top of the stairs during which he beat his chest, did a couple of interesting squats, and proclaimed himself the immortal god-king who, in his generosity and benevolence, would spare Mother Earth of any male descendants so as not to overwhelm her with the sheer potency and so end the human race in a fiery explosion of quivering lust. Whereupon he collapsed in a sweaty heap of sobs and scotch, a shard of my cosmetics mirror clouded with a faint dusting of mysterious white powder, and an empty bottle of Zyrtec. I'm not saying he did and I'm not saying he didn't, but the allergies are bad this year.
And the immortal god-king is not getting much in the way of carnal satisfaction either. Because, you see, I vomit every time I come. Except for once when I cried. Really cried. Big, hot, wet tears. He said he thinks he prefers it when I throw up. It's really very weird, because I can't not come. So now instead of witty repartee, or at least some well-timed Dumb and Dumber quotes, foreplay consists of me vigorously massaging the muscle that aches the most, which coincidentally runs right through my left labia, and his eyes glaze over at the memories of our odd but robust sex life, and he says hopefully, "Kick his ass, C-Bass?" And I say, "Shut up, your child is killing me, and if you come anywhere near me with that minty, meaty smell of yours I'm going to rip out your jugular with my teeth," to which he replies, "You only live once."
And the immortal god-king is not getting much in the way of carnal satisfaction either. Because, you see, I vomit every time I come. Except for once when I cried. Really cried. Big, hot, wet tears. He said he thinks he prefers it when I throw up. It's really very weird, because I can't not come. So now instead of witty repartee, or at least some well-timed Dumb and Dumber quotes, foreplay consists of me vigorously massaging the muscle that aches the most, which coincidentally runs right through my left labia, and his eyes glaze over at the memories of our odd but robust sex life, and he says hopefully, "Kick his ass, C-Bass?" And I say, "Shut up, your child is killing me, and if you come anywhere near me with that minty, meaty smell of yours I'm going to rip out your jugular with my teeth," to which he replies, "You only live once."
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Warning for the Gentlemen: Pregnant Lady Stuff In Which I Mention Vomit and Urine. Like That Would Stop You Pervs.
Well when it rains...
I can't seem to catch a break. In spite of living in a hermetically sealed cocoon for the past three months due to the fact that if I move or think about moving I vomit outrageously, I've managed to catch a cold. I do not enjoy being sick (not that anyone does) but being sick when I'm pregnant makes me extremely anxious. I do not like to take medication when I'm pregnant, and I'm forced to if I get a headache because if it turns into a migraine, I will end up in the hospital on their medication. Bear with me. I'm miserable.
On the plus side (kind of), I went to the midwives for a monthly check up and they called me back after they checked my urine sample and said I needed to come in for an IV because I was extremely dehydrated. I knew I wasn't quite up to speed, but I was in denial since I was still actually able to pee (albeit in only trace amounts). Last time I'd stopped entirely.
But that brings me to the plus side which is the midwives. I don't think I mentioned it, but I'm going to a birthing center instead of a hospital. With my first two, I didn't have time for an epidural or medication, so honestly, what's the point? If I'm going au natural anyway, I might as well be able give birth on all fours in a swing if I take a mind to. They're very tolerant. And so kind and sympathetic. When you are just perfectly miserable and even blinking makes you sick, it helps to have someone who simply understands and does whatever they can to make you comfortable. When I went for the IV, they put me on a comfy couch, got me three blankets, a fluffy pillow, and a bunch of magazines along with snacks and juice, and they just stayed and talked with me. It was almost fun. We tossed around ideas as to what was causing my incessant nausea, and I made them laugh, which is always nice. The midwife that day said she wanted to be the one to deliver my baby which I took as a compliment.
At the birthing center, they have 8 or 9 midwives and you try to see every one of them before you give birth. If you establish a special rapport with any of them, you can request them for the birth. Other than that, it's whoever is on call. With how fast I deliver, I know better than to pick favorites. But so far it's even. Every midwife I've seen has been an angel.
So things are chugging along. I'm 4 months in. I've probably lost some 20 lbs, but I had it to spare (and then some). I'll probably lose a bit more, but that will only be a silver lining at the very end. A new baby plus hotness. Pretty cool.
I'll update again when I know what the baby is. I'd love to be all secretive and surprisey but that ain't happening. I have too big a mouth.
I can't seem to catch a break. In spite of living in a hermetically sealed cocoon for the past three months due to the fact that if I move or think about moving I vomit outrageously, I've managed to catch a cold. I do not enjoy being sick (not that anyone does) but being sick when I'm pregnant makes me extremely anxious. I do not like to take medication when I'm pregnant, and I'm forced to if I get a headache because if it turns into a migraine, I will end up in the hospital on their medication. Bear with me. I'm miserable.
On the plus side (kind of), I went to the midwives for a monthly check up and they called me back after they checked my urine sample and said I needed to come in for an IV because I was extremely dehydrated. I knew I wasn't quite up to speed, but I was in denial since I was still actually able to pee (albeit in only trace amounts). Last time I'd stopped entirely.
But that brings me to the plus side which is the midwives. I don't think I mentioned it, but I'm going to a birthing center instead of a hospital. With my first two, I didn't have time for an epidural or medication, so honestly, what's the point? If I'm going au natural anyway, I might as well be able give birth on all fours in a swing if I take a mind to. They're very tolerant. And so kind and sympathetic. When you are just perfectly miserable and even blinking makes you sick, it helps to have someone who simply understands and does whatever they can to make you comfortable. When I went for the IV, they put me on a comfy couch, got me three blankets, a fluffy pillow, and a bunch of magazines along with snacks and juice, and they just stayed and talked with me. It was almost fun. We tossed around ideas as to what was causing my incessant nausea, and I made them laugh, which is always nice. The midwife that day said she wanted to be the one to deliver my baby which I took as a compliment.
At the birthing center, they have 8 or 9 midwives and you try to see every one of them before you give birth. If you establish a special rapport with any of them, you can request them for the birth. Other than that, it's whoever is on call. With how fast I deliver, I know better than to pick favorites. But so far it's even. Every midwife I've seen has been an angel.
So things are chugging along. I'm 4 months in. I've probably lost some 20 lbs, but I had it to spare (and then some). I'll probably lose a bit more, but that will only be a silver lining at the very end. A new baby plus hotness. Pretty cool.
I'll update again when I know what the baby is. I'd love to be all secretive and surprisey but that ain't happening. I have too big a mouth.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Big News
So finally something to blog about.
I'm pregnant.
And almost on purpose this time. Jethro and I had been talking about trying for a boy for years. Recently, the talk became a little more proactive, and God said, "That's it! They said yes!" And boom. Here we are. Expecting a sweet little baby sometime in June.
We won't know if Jethro will have a son and heir until February, but as he said on his facebook status, "May the third child be a masculine child." We are going to hope that translates into a boy and not a lesbian.
So that's the good stuff. Now the bad stuff. I'm sick as a freaking dog. I don't know if I've ever mentioned this, but I handle pregnancy about as well as an Occupy Wall Street protester handles baths. Among other unpleasantries, I am nauseous constantly and I throw up so hard and often that I worry about detaching my retinas (hypochondriac that I am). I've always wanted more children, but I just didn't have the strength to be pregnant, especially after Gwen and Em being so close together. And I was young then.
But after a 10 year hiatus, I've worked up the nerve to have another go. And it's just as bad as I feared, so this will have to be the last even though I wanted 4. I just can't do it.
But it will be worth it. I don't even have to just tell myself that. I know it. Gwen and Em are proof. They are so helpful and sweet and excited, I could cry. I'm a horrid bitch from the belching depths of hell when I'm sick, and they have been so patient and good. They must have really, really wanted another sibling.
I'm pregnant.
And almost on purpose this time. Jethro and I had been talking about trying for a boy for years. Recently, the talk became a little more proactive, and God said, "That's it! They said yes!" And boom. Here we are. Expecting a sweet little baby sometime in June.
We won't know if Jethro will have a son and heir until February, but as he said on his facebook status, "May the third child be a masculine child." We are going to hope that translates into a boy and not a lesbian.
So that's the good stuff. Now the bad stuff. I'm sick as a freaking dog. I don't know if I've ever mentioned this, but I handle pregnancy about as well as an Occupy Wall Street protester handles baths. Among other unpleasantries, I am nauseous constantly and I throw up so hard and often that I worry about detaching my retinas (hypochondriac that I am). I've always wanted more children, but I just didn't have the strength to be pregnant, especially after Gwen and Em being so close together. And I was young then.
But after a 10 year hiatus, I've worked up the nerve to have another go. And it's just as bad as I feared, so this will have to be the last even though I wanted 4. I just can't do it.
But it will be worth it. I don't even have to just tell myself that. I know it. Gwen and Em are proof. They are so helpful and sweet and excited, I could cry. I'm a horrid bitch from the belching depths of hell when I'm sick, and they have been so patient and good. They must have really, really wanted another sibling.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Catching Up
Well yes, it's been awhile. Not too much in the way of news, except that the swinger couple broke up in dramatic fashion, which was fairly predictable. She was a diabetic who would have weird, blood sugar related outbursts flinging wild accusations of physical and sexual misconduct and vile profanity. The swinger gentleman decided that the opportunity to stick his dick in a cage containing the volatile creature was probably not worth the potential of having it bitten off. In jail.
Other than that, things are going well. That's good for me, but obviously terrible for the blogging.
But as Jethro says, "I've got a beautiful wife, adorable children, a great house, a great career, my dream car, and Gears of War 3 is coming out next week. Can't ask for more than that."
And should I be content? Yes. I should. But as usual, I'm not. I'm trying to take credit for my kids who are quite lovely, but they were pretty much just born like that so I want a career of some kind to take credit for and make a little scratch at. Yes, I help Jethro at the clinic, and yes, I do graphic design on the side, but I really would like to make either of them just slightly more lucrative. What's that you say? The economy is shit? All the more reason to suck it up and do something. I am ambitious for both of us, but I don't know how to take the first step in really launching either of us. It's annoying. But enough of that. This is boring.
So what else is new? Oh yeah. Jethro bought a car. A blue 2008 Audi A5. We can't afford it, but we did it anyway because he was driving a beater and it didn't make him look successful. Or competent. Or sane. So we will continue our diet of beans and gruel cooked on an increasingly hostile stove for a little while longer. Not that we're that poor. We just have a lot of debt that we would like to pay off sooner rather than later.
In other, not so pleasant news, both of Jethro's parents have suffered strokes. His mom had one over a year ago and refused to get diagnosed for over 6 months. Now she is continuing to refuse to go to physical therapy, so she is getting weaker and weaker and there is nothing we can do with her unrelenting stubbornness. It sucks. Jethro's father is almost as bad, but fortunately his stroke, while not as serious, had more obvious side effects so he went to the hospital and got treatment. Unfortunately, while there, they discovered his platelets are low and his white cell count is high, so they are trying to figure out what unknown condition he has on top of having had a stroke. And it would not be an exaggeration to say that he is a reluctant participant in his own healthcare.
Jethro, confronted with the genetic red flags of stroke, has begun a rigorous exercise regimen and I offer him thoughtful and well-timed encouragement from the couch while drinking a nice red wine with cocoa undertones and eating Dryers French Silk ice cream. I'm nice like that.
Now for anyone who has read me for a long time, this is going to blow your mind. My eldest is 12 years old. She was 4 when I started this horror show. She is everything a 12 year old should be. Insecure, awkward, sassy, and beautiful. So much of a child still, thank God, but darting towards a womanhood she greatly anticipates and utterly fears. Boys are complete mysteries to her, but she knows she kind of likes them. Her heart is kind. Dogs and babies love and obey her with complete devotion. She geeks out on anime, but loves playing basketball. I look at her all the time and still can't quite believe that this spunky, delicate little creature is mine to love with all my heart.
Other than that, things are going well. That's good for me, but obviously terrible for the blogging.
But as Jethro says, "I've got a beautiful wife, adorable children, a great house, a great career, my dream car, and Gears of War 3 is coming out next week. Can't ask for more than that."
And should I be content? Yes. I should. But as usual, I'm not. I'm trying to take credit for my kids who are quite lovely, but they were pretty much just born like that so I want a career of some kind to take credit for and make a little scratch at. Yes, I help Jethro at the clinic, and yes, I do graphic design on the side, but I really would like to make either of them just slightly more lucrative. What's that you say? The economy is shit? All the more reason to suck it up and do something. I am ambitious for both of us, but I don't know how to take the first step in really launching either of us. It's annoying. But enough of that. This is boring.
So what else is new? Oh yeah. Jethro bought a car. A blue 2008 Audi A5. We can't afford it, but we did it anyway because he was driving a beater and it didn't make him look successful. Or competent. Or sane. So we will continue our diet of beans and gruel cooked on an increasingly hostile stove for a little while longer. Not that we're that poor. We just have a lot of debt that we would like to pay off sooner rather than later.
In other, not so pleasant news, both of Jethro's parents have suffered strokes. His mom had one over a year ago and refused to get diagnosed for over 6 months. Now she is continuing to refuse to go to physical therapy, so she is getting weaker and weaker and there is nothing we can do with her unrelenting stubbornness. It sucks. Jethro's father is almost as bad, but fortunately his stroke, while not as serious, had more obvious side effects so he went to the hospital and got treatment. Unfortunately, while there, they discovered his platelets are low and his white cell count is high, so they are trying to figure out what unknown condition he has on top of having had a stroke. And it would not be an exaggeration to say that he is a reluctant participant in his own healthcare.
Jethro, confronted with the genetic red flags of stroke, has begun a rigorous exercise regimen and I offer him thoughtful and well-timed encouragement from the couch while drinking a nice red wine with cocoa undertones and eating Dryers French Silk ice cream. I'm nice like that.
Now for anyone who has read me for a long time, this is going to blow your mind. My eldest is 12 years old. She was 4 when I started this horror show. She is everything a 12 year old should be. Insecure, awkward, sassy, and beautiful. So much of a child still, thank God, but darting towards a womanhood she greatly anticipates and utterly fears. Boys are complete mysteries to her, but she knows she kind of likes them. Her heart is kind. Dogs and babies love and obey her with complete devotion. She geeks out on anime, but loves playing basketball. I look at her all the time and still can't quite believe that this spunky, delicate little creature is mine to love with all my heart.
Sunday, May 01, 2011
Swinger Weekend
I have had an interesting weekend. A friend of mine from Houston came to visit with his girlfriend. They are swingers.
It seems we had a miscommunication somewhere. When I say I'm open minded, that means I'm not going to judge you too harshly to your face about anything short of child-molestation. That doesn't mean I want to make out with your girlfriend or watch you feel her up or see a picture of her clitoral piercing, much less a live view.
And when we discuss your swinging lifestyle and I say "The only way I would do that is if I paid someone," that literally means I WOULD ONLY DO THAT IF I PAID SOMEONE. That does NOT mean I am toying with the idea of having fun sexy times with people I actually know. When discussing the idea with Jethro (and I do this only to string him along the rocky trail of holy matrimony), it is always with the understanding that I am not interested in some broke, schizophrenic college student with daddy issues. I want a professional who will do whatever I say, in a place so far away that I would never have to make small talk with them while having flashbacks to their sex noises if they cough in a funny way.
Yeah, I know I can talk, but that is all it is. I am ALL TALK. No action. Never have been, never will be. Most people understand this and humor me as long as I amuse them.
Now I'm not really mad at my friend. They're new at it, and it's very very exciting to them. I wasn't interested, but if I had been, I really would have needed some warning. Because my bedroom was nowhere near orgy-ready. And I was on my period - something I did not plan on announcing.
But I am loathe to make people uncomfortable in my own home, so I found myself politely commenting on the photographs of the clitoral piercing, the cage in which girlfriend was stripping awkwardly with the friend's penis thrust encouragingly through the bars...
I smiled and yawned when girlfriend asked me to come lay down by her so she could play with my hair, which was actually tempting because I love to have my hair played with. Fuck, I have no balls.
It seems we had a miscommunication somewhere. When I say I'm open minded, that means I'm not going to judge you too harshly to your face about anything short of child-molestation. That doesn't mean I want to make out with your girlfriend or watch you feel her up or see a picture of her clitoral piercing, much less a live view.
And when we discuss your swinging lifestyle and I say "The only way I would do that is if I paid someone," that literally means I WOULD ONLY DO THAT IF I PAID SOMEONE. That does NOT mean I am toying with the idea of having fun sexy times with people I actually know. When discussing the idea with Jethro (and I do this only to string him along the rocky trail of holy matrimony), it is always with the understanding that I am not interested in some broke, schizophrenic college student with daddy issues. I want a professional who will do whatever I say, in a place so far away that I would never have to make small talk with them while having flashbacks to their sex noises if they cough in a funny way.
Yeah, I know I can talk, but that is all it is. I am ALL TALK. No action. Never have been, never will be. Most people understand this and humor me as long as I amuse them.
Now I'm not really mad at my friend. They're new at it, and it's very very exciting to them. I wasn't interested, but if I had been, I really would have needed some warning. Because my bedroom was nowhere near orgy-ready. And I was on my period - something I did not plan on announcing.
But I am loathe to make people uncomfortable in my own home, so I found myself politely commenting on the photographs of the clitoral piercing, the cage in which girlfriend was stripping awkwardly with the friend's penis thrust encouragingly through the bars...
I smiled and yawned when girlfriend asked me to come lay down by her so she could play with my hair, which was actually tempting because I love to have my hair played with. Fuck, I have no balls.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Some Movies
I tried to watch an old movie on Netflix called "Those Redheads from Seattle."
My family has a thing for old movies, probably because we only had a VCR growing up (no tv) and our mom would rent old, silly movies so as not to warp our morals. Fat lot of good. But in spite of us now practicing all manner of heathenry, she did manage to instill in us a love for old, cheesy films and their accompanying soundtracks.
The description was mildly intriguing:
Determined to reunite her scattered family, Mrs. Edmonds moves her daughters north to the Yukon to be with their father. But the man's been murdered, and now the penniless women must make ends meet while finding the killer.
It sounded a little noir-ish with the twist of a mainly female cast. But it's a damn musical. And it's horrid. They are going to find their father's killer and do a very modest can-can, exclaiming all the while about how daring they are to let anyone catch a glimpse of their bulky pantalettes. I haven't finished the movie, and I doubt I will, but I have no doubt the killer will be drawn in some way to those bulky pantalettes. They always are, you know.
Which brings me to another movie I watched earlier today. It was a very stupid French film called "Emmanuelle." I'd never heard of it, but I feel certain it is well known among connoisseurs of early 70s erotica.
Not being a connoisseur of early 70s or any other kind of erotica, I'm not sure what I was thinking. I thought it would be stylish, I guess. But it wasn't. It was about a wealthy, hedonistic band of white people upholding the dignity of their respective countries by screwing around Thailand; and Emmanuelle, the nice French girl they wanted to corrupt for their own gratification. For a film which contained a sex act in nearly every scene, including a young girl masturbating to a picture of Paul Newman, and a flexible Asian chick lighting a cigarette with another cigarette from the part of her anatomy you'd expect her to light it with if you were in Thailand, it was boring as hell.
The last quarter of the movie had Emmanuelle, at the insistence of the hedonists, being escorted around Bangkok by a patriarchal old pervert attempting to rid her of her inhibitions and convince her to accept the tenants of eroticism by making her smoke opium, having her forcibly taken by natives in the opium den, offering her as the prize to the winner of a very lame Thai boxing match (which the winner, remarkably free of bruises or cuts, gleefully accepted on all fours in front of the entire gathered assembly), and then giving her a new dress. All the while, the pervert remained clothed in a dark, somber suit, and lectured constantly as to what she should be thinking. It was like being raped to a sermon.
I guess it was supposed to do something for you, or at least make you uncomfortably sure that you'd be heaped with scorn by the sexual sophisticates for thinking Emmanuelle looked kind of silly with her skirt over her head for most of the film. Mostly what I took away is that hedonists are just as humorless about sex as puritans.
My family has a thing for old movies, probably because we only had a VCR growing up (no tv) and our mom would rent old, silly movies so as not to warp our morals. Fat lot of good. But in spite of us now practicing all manner of heathenry, she did manage to instill in us a love for old, cheesy films and their accompanying soundtracks.
The description was mildly intriguing:
Determined to reunite her scattered family, Mrs. Edmonds moves her daughters north to the Yukon to be with their father. But the man's been murdered, and now the penniless women must make ends meet while finding the killer.
It sounded a little noir-ish with the twist of a mainly female cast. But it's a damn musical. And it's horrid. They are going to find their father's killer and do a very modest can-can, exclaiming all the while about how daring they are to let anyone catch a glimpse of their bulky pantalettes. I haven't finished the movie, and I doubt I will, but I have no doubt the killer will be drawn in some way to those bulky pantalettes. They always are, you know.
Which brings me to another movie I watched earlier today. It was a very stupid French film called "Emmanuelle." I'd never heard of it, but I feel certain it is well known among connoisseurs of early 70s erotica.
Not being a connoisseur of early 70s or any other kind of erotica, I'm not sure what I was thinking. I thought it would be stylish, I guess. But it wasn't. It was about a wealthy, hedonistic band of white people upholding the dignity of their respective countries by screwing around Thailand; and Emmanuelle, the nice French girl they wanted to corrupt for their own gratification. For a film which contained a sex act in nearly every scene, including a young girl masturbating to a picture of Paul Newman, and a flexible Asian chick lighting a cigarette with another cigarette from the part of her anatomy you'd expect her to light it with if you were in Thailand, it was boring as hell.
The last quarter of the movie had Emmanuelle, at the insistence of the hedonists, being escorted around Bangkok by a patriarchal old pervert attempting to rid her of her inhibitions and convince her to accept the tenants of eroticism by making her smoke opium, having her forcibly taken by natives in the opium den, offering her as the prize to the winner of a very lame Thai boxing match (which the winner, remarkably free of bruises or cuts, gleefully accepted on all fours in front of the entire gathered assembly), and then giving her a new dress. All the while, the pervert remained clothed in a dark, somber suit, and lectured constantly as to what she should be thinking. It was like being raped to a sermon.
I guess it was supposed to do something for you, or at least make you uncomfortably sure that you'd be heaped with scorn by the sexual sophisticates for thinking Emmanuelle looked kind of silly with her skirt over her head for most of the film. Mostly what I took away is that hedonists are just as humorless about sex as puritans.
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