Sedaratives: Julie Klausner

Sedaratives: Julie Klausner

Julie Klausner
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Dear Sedaratives:

Exactly how awkward is it that I think my gynecologist is a little cute? Should I be looking for a doctor who I find personally unattractive?

Ann Arbor, Mich.

Hi Anonymous:

First of all, don’t you love that expression: “Awk-ward!”? I certainly do. I also like “Tell us how you really feel,” and “That’s gonna leave a mark!” That second one is a thing you say while somebody near you is hurt physically, and instead of running to their defense, you’re like, “I’m going to stand here and say something I stole from that old lady with the craggy face and saggy breasts from the Shoebox Greetings birthday cards.” And when the cops come and give you a look like, “This woman is bleeding internally and you just stood there and said something about leaving a mark,” you twiddle your thumbs (or breasts) and you’re like “Awk-ward!”

So, to answer your rather McMahonian question, “How awkward is it?” as pertaining to your attractive “OMG-YN”: in all honesty, it does sound pretty awkward.

But that’s not to say you should be pounding the Cigna directory for a suitably repellent alternative to “Dr. T. and the Women, starring Richard Gere.” It just depends on how comfortable you are flirting with somebody whose job it is to make sure your ovaries don’t wither, or your cervix doesn’t turn to clay, or that your various O’Keefeian plumbing doesn’t malfunction in a disgusting or upsetting way.

If you’re afraid of being honest about what ails you in the pants at the risk of seeming coy, or dumb, or however it is ladies like to act these days to make it so men want to get their John Hancocks all tangled up in their corn mazery, then you owe it to your tubes and their surrounding garden furniture to seek gynecological assistance elsewhere.

And if you’re like “Fuck it, my pussy is my best feature,” then Godspeed, Anonymous. Go forth, and make things awkward like a fox.



Dear Sedaratives:

I got a black eye after falling down some stairs. Seriously. But every time I explain that to my friends, they assume I’m covering up an abusive relationship. How do I make it obvious that my boyfriend isn’t smacking me around and I honestly am just a clumsy ass?

Two Left Feet in Kentucky

Dear Lefty:

Have you ever considered having an affair with somebody who is abusive? That way you wouldn’t be lying to your friends, who seem nice. Also, what kind of stairs give you a black eye? Constantly turning Busby Berkeley stairs? If that is your case, I suggest you invest in a case of Max Factor foundation, or whatever those ’30s chorus girls must have used to cover up their Berkeley-given shiners. Also, while you’re at it, you may as well give your hair a pin curl, lower the hem of your skirt, and tweeze your eyebrows into oblivion. Your new look is likely to allure one of your suitors, and enrage the other. Remember, because now you have an abusive lover? Get to juggling suitors, young lady, and the respective lovemaking and domestic violence that comes along with the task at hand!



Dear Sedaratives:

My mother says that nobody has good manners anymore. This coming from a woman who fucked three strangers at Woodstock. Does her moral grandstanding carry any weight at all?


S. Petrova

Dear Señor Petrova:

Wow! Really? Only three? Good for her for exercising the “Sixties” version of portion control in what I’m certain must have been a tempting situation. Wait, unless you’re talking about Woodstock ’94. Do you remember that? And how it was sponsored by a northeastern home electronics chain called Nobody Beats the Wiz? We all thought that was so funny, because the original Woodstock did beat the Wiz, or maybe I don’t ­really understand what “funny” means.

The point is that Woodstock ’94 had a little more mud than the original Woodstock, and there was way more Aphex Twin. So if your mom fucked some strangers in the mid-’90s, I can’t help you. That is disgusting.

But if you’re saying what I think you are, about the ­original lineup and Sha Na Na and all of it, then who are we to tell ourselves our parents are something more or less than ­people? And people are fallible, braless, brown acid–imbibing filthsluts sometimes. It has been proven by science!

So listen to Mrs. Manners-Petrova when she reminds you not to slurp your soup. At worst, it could be malarkey and at best, it could be a revolting euphemism for a sexual act she endured in the company of at least two members of the Spin Doctors.



Dear Sedaratives:

Is it creepy to plan your own funeral? I’m not sick and I don’t intend on dying anytime soon, but when the time comes, I don’t want my family, who managed to ruin my wedding, to screw up my “other” big day. Is this selfish?

Planning Ahead in Sacramento, Calif.

Dear Planning Ahead-ache is more like it:

Wow! You seem like a really fun, “California”-type of person. You collect grudges, you’re super into “own-funeral-planning,” and you’re the human equivalent of an avocado or a Mike Love vocal break!

My advice for you is to go about doing exactly what you’ve been doing, only maybe intend on dying soon a little more. And please write back and tell me how your family ruined your wedding.

Seriously, I’m curious! Did they try to jump out of the cake? They can’t do that with a real cake! It ruins the cake, and also, as a side note, I hate it when more than one person jumps out of a cake. I’ve never seen it but I’m pretty sure I’d hate it. It’s a cake, not a clown car! Unless it’s one of those cakes they make especially for clowns on that Ace of Cakes show. But if a clown was going to get a cake, do you really think he’d want one in the shape of a car? He probably wouldn’t. Hey, look at me: I know what clowns think!



Dear Sedaratives:

I’ve been seeing this very attractive, smart, sweet, nice guy for a while now. What’s the problem? He’s not funny. Not even a little bit. The text message one-liners are little suicides. And the worn-down observational humor gives me crushing genital sadness.

Tell me what to do before I commit a serious crime against an otherwise wonderful human being.

Sophia Devareaux

Dear Sophia:

Give me twenty-four hours, and I will marry you off to a clown.


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