My father never had "the talk" with me. Not that my mother didn't push him to. He kept saying he'd get to it, but never did.

Instead, when I was 11, my mother walked into my bedroom, handed me a book, and told me to ask her if I had any questions.

The only question I had then, and now, is why did she get me a sex-ed pop-up book?

It was The Facts Of Life: Three-Dimensional, Moveable Illustrations Showing the Development of a Baby from Conception to Birth.



I remember reading it and thinking I was aware of everything in it. I have a much older brother, after all. For years afterward, I vividly remembered my impressions of the section on male reproductive cells. Which is why paisley makes me uncomfortable.

Round and Round I Spin, Where I Stop is Almost a Given

Three ways to spend my time. I always seem to choose the screen, giving my days away and not remembering what I saw.

The Nick of Time

I asked her to order the 100 pack of razor blades for me. She thought "why not?" and ordered two packs. At the rate I use them, I now have enough shaving blades to last for the next seven years. Or, to put another way, well into my fifties. I will now think about this every time I shave.