You know those dorky people that half snort/half laugh while they're reading a book? I've always been really embarrassed for them...until I caught myself doing it the other day. But in my defense, I was in the privacy of my own room. I wasn't in a coffee shop delicately sipping my vanilla soy latte and generally being a tool. So the defense rests. BUT 'tis a rare thing indeed when a book makes me crack a smile, let alone utter a hearty guffaw.
Dark at the Roots by Sarah Thyre is amazing. A-MAY-zing. It's her memoir of growing up in the Louisiana bayou just outside of New Orleans. She holds nothing back: bodily fluids, abusive father, puberty, and sexual awakening are all juicy chapters in the book. And I'm jealous of how wittily and wonderfully she writes. Need I add she played the dykey coach in my favorite TV show Strangers with Candy? I want this woman to be my best friend. We could eat crawfish together and reminisce about the snotty days of youth. Here's a sampling of her pure poetry:
I still wasn't entirely clear about exactly how many holes were between my legs, but I got the feeling one of them was up to no good.
A few days later, while digging through the plastic bag Mom used as a purse, I came across a scrap of paper with a date and a curious-sounding name scribbled on it.
"Sooooo, who's this Pap Smear?" I asked Mom, sure I was catching her having an affair. Pap would be an older man: bearded, courtly, possibly a jazz musician, definitely with a swimming pool.
"That's not a who," Mom said, "that's when they take a spatula and scrape out your vagina to see if you have cancer."
"Ucchhh!" I said, disappointed that I wouldn't be swimming at Pap's mansion and entertaining friends in his gazebo.
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