Posted on December 5, by Cathy Lamb

By Madeline O’Shea

Vasectomies and You

After particular sessions, I ask my clients if I can print what they’ve said to me in order to share a tidbit of women’s wisdom with other women who might need this tidbit.

My most recent client, we’ll call her Tess, agreed.  “If I can help one woman out there deal with a man whose afraid he’ll never be in heat again like a horny dog if he gets a vasectomy, it’ll be worth it.”

Tess is five feet one inches tall, a hundred pounds, with blonde hair that she calls, “The Frizz Blast,” and, in her words, “outsized brown eyes. I look like a raccoon with blonde hair and the teeth of a cow. They stick out, you know. See?”

Here is Tess’s story:

“My husband did not want a vasectomy. It was like trying to get a drunk bull to squish through a tire.  I am freakin’ tired of birth control. The pill makes me vomit and dizzy. Diaphragms are gross and condoms are what you use when you’re a teenager rolling around naked in the back of an El Camino.  Do I look like a pesky teenager? No, I don’t. So I told him he needed to go in and get clipped.

“He acted like I’d asked him to give up his whatsits on a plate with a garnish of pickles and relish. I have given birth to five children, two at one time with the twins, and I have never, ever whined like that man did. But I told him no sex until you’re castrated, whack and whack. It took him a week and he finally caved in, but he was pale white, like a ghost, so I trailed after him going, ‘booooo boooo.’

“Anyhow, I had to drug him before we even got to the hospital that morning. A double dose.  I had to drag him in like a dead dog. If he could have cupped his jewels with both hands without looking ridiculous, trust me, he would have done it. So I hand him over to the doctor and the doctor claps him on the back like, ‘Buck up, man.’”

“Honestly, I have pushed five kids through something that is normally the width of a grape, and I didn’t moan and piss like that. So I’m in the waiting room and I brought a flask of whiskey with me, I needed it after what I’d been through, and I start reading my romance novel and I’m perfectly happy.  His mother, Hatchet Face, is with the kids and I am finally alone for the first time in months. Even when I pee the kids come into the bathroom and fight with each other on the bath rug. Anyhow, I am sitting there hoping the vasectomy takes five hours or there’s some earthquake – sized complication, and we have to stay overnight at the hospital. I mean, wouldn’t that be great? I could stay overnight in a hospital! No kids and hopefully my husband would be out cold. But no! The doctor is a man and doesn’t understand. Way too quick, and right when I’m in the middle of a hot sex scene, as if I have the energy to think that sex can be hot anymore, the deed is done, he’s been sliced and diced. The nurse comes to get me. I wanted to cry when she said my husband was ‘ready.’ Darn it, though,  I wasn’t ready!

“So I went back to the room and there he is, lying down, his face gluey white. And I let this man get me knocked up five times? This coward?  This ghost? ‘I think I saw smoke, Tess, and I smelled it,’ he whispered, his eyes staring wildly, like he’s seen the hounds of hell running around his balls gnashing their teeth. ‘There was fire. I think I saw flames. I was on fire!’ That man got teary eyed over his testicles. It’s not like they were removed and put in a jar of formaldehyde, you know.

“‘You had a vasectomy,’ I told him, pissed off there weren’t complications. I had wanted to read my romance! It would have been great if the knife had slipped and we’d had to stay a week in the hospital, that would have been a treat. ‘There wasn’t any fire or flames,’ I told him.

‘I’m not a man anymore,’ he moaned.

‘Yeah, you’re a man.’ I rolled my eyes. ‘You still got your pecker.’

‘I’m not a man…

‘If you’re not a man, you’re not a man, you eunuch, so maybe you won’t pester me so much for sex anymore.’ I have had sex hundreds of times, Madeline, how many more times do I have to have it?

“So, after a lot of irritating whining, so bad I wanted to smack him, we went home and he laid in bed with an ice pack on his balls, still moaning and it reminded of me of my childhood dog, Frisky. Frisky ran out and chased down kids and bit them, letting out this terrible howl.  He would dart out the door before we could stop him, running at high speed. He even had a girlfriend dog that he would visit every once in a while even though the girlfriend’s boyfriend – dog chewed him up a couple of times. My mother used to have our neighbor’s St. Bernard chase Frisky down and get him home.

“Anyhow, as soon as my mother got that dog castrated, the ole’ balls cut off, he settled right on down. No more gallivanting around, no more cheating with the ladies, no more biting of kids on bikes. So that’s what I told my husband when he was in bed groaning about the fire and smoke again. I told him about Frisky and said, ‘You two got something in common. Now shut up and quit whining.’”

“He complained for days from bed. By the fifth day, when he yelled my name three times, and I walked back to the bedroom, carrying the baby, the toddler hanging onto my heel, and he whined, “Can you re-fill my orange juice? And, I need another blanket. I’m chilled. Do you know where my gray socks are? No, not the white ones. I need my gray fishing socks, can you put them on my feet?” I let him have it. I told him that I’d given birth to five kids, I’d been pregnant for most of our marriage.  He never took care of me when I got home from the hospital, even the time I got sick with the flu after the third kid. Didn’t even take a day off work to help out, but two weeks later he was able to take six days off to go fishing with his buddies. I hadn’t laid in bed for five days after I’d had the kids. In fact on the second day I was up and taking care of him and everyone else.  He never brought me a meal in bed or so much as orange juice. He never brought me socks and put them on my feet. I told him all that and I told him I was sick of his being a baby and I poured an entire pitcher of orange juice on his crotch and told him to get his slack balls out of bed.

“I kicked him out of the house. I packed his suitcase, and threw him out and told him to go home to Momma, the Hatchet Face. I threw an ice pack at his head, too, I was so mad. I felt like years of fury were bottled up in me and they all came out.   He works eight hours a day, an hour off for lunch, comes home, lays on the couch, and makes derisive comments about how I, ‘…don’t work…he’d like to stay home all day and watch TV, too…it’s his money, not mine….

“I called a lawyer, the lawyer served him at work, told him what his child support was gonna be for five kids. He came home three days later on his knees after being with his mother, who is a tyrannical dictator. I told him to stay with her for three months because I needed a break from him. The next weekend I dropped all five of the kids off at his mother’s house, thank heavens I’m done nursing the baby. I also dropped off all the crap he has stacked in our garage he refuses to throw away, plus his beer bottle collection, and the lights shaped like beer cans. My daughter said his mother left for a hotel by Saturday morning. By Saturday night my husband was crying because the baby wouldn’t stop crying, my two year old kept fussing, and the other three kids were driving him crazy and wanted to come home to me.

“I had the best three days of my life, Madeline. Can’t wait to drop the kids off in two weeks again. He’s begging to come back home. Begging like a fiend. You know what the lesson here is?

“If you’re going to have balls in your life, make sure they’re good balls. If I’m going to allow his balls back in my life, there’s going to be huge, huge changes, if he doesn’t want to make them, he’s out. He causes me too much stress. My life is easier, easier Madeline, without him, no question. He’s more work than my kids, and he never gives back to me. He takes. Sucks me dry emotionally. I need to go ball-less for awhile. The kids and I and none of his balls. And, hey, twice a month, I get free weekends, Friday afternoon to Sunday evening, and every other Wednesday I get three hours to myself. Plus, he’s paying through his nose for child support and alimony. Loses more than half his check. Now that I don’t have to pay for his gambling and beer runs, I’m way ahead.”

She left later and I thought about what Tess said.

Ladies, you don’t have to have balls in your life. It’s a choice. Remember that. You can be on your own. You can be veryhappy on your own. In fact, much happier than you are now if you’re living with a man who sucks the life out of you.

Think on it. Balls or no balls?

What was  your inspiration for your first book, Julia’s Chocolates?

Years ago I heard several writers say that writers should only write about what they know. This was truly alarming to me because I really didn’t know jack about anything.  Surely no one wanted to hear about how quick I could change my twins’ diapers while standing in a public restroom or how I prevented my one year old daughter from eating a spider? I decided that advice was silly.

So, I decided to write a book about something I knew nothing about.  Which was, again, truly alarming. The list of subjects I know nothing about could wrap around Neptune twice.

But there was one thing I didn’t know even a wee little thing about: What it would be like to be raised by a lousy mother. My mother was a beautiful woman, inside and out, and everyone loved her. So, I flipped things for Julia’s Chocolates. The mother in the book is an abusive, neglectful, drunken wreck of a woman, completely opposite from my own.  She was the beginning of the entire book. I gave her a daughter, dropped her off at an eccentric aunt’s house, and all the characters evolved from there.

When did you start writing?

I started writing when I was four. I had this neighbor next door named Sandy M.

We squabbled a lot because Sandy always had to have her way. Her specialty was sulking and she cheated at hide and seek. One day I sat down at our kitchen table and wrote her a note with my green crayon. I wrote, “Dear Sandy, you are a …” and then I paused, totally stymied by spelling. I asked my mother how to spell “brat.” I didn’t think she would help, but whaddya know. She said, “Cathy, it’s B.R.A.T.” Voila. I learned the power of words.

Do you like writing or does it drive you nuts?

Writing is like breathing for me. It’s chocolate, sunshine, my kids’ smiles, snow days, the San Juan Islands, hope, joy, my roses and that cool waterfall in the Canadian Rockies I saw two years ago all rolled into one. When I don’t have a project going (rare) I’m on edge and scattered and super restless. My life has no seams to hold it together on either end. Although I don’t sit at my computer all day long because my brain would start to splinter and shrivel with boredom, I am, for most of each day, thinking about my book, the characters, the pacing, the dialogue, etc.  When I’m schlepping my kids around town or staring morosely into my coffee at a café, I often can fix the problems I’m having with my books.

And yes, I like writing, I love writing, and yes, it drives me nuts. Absolutely, totally, mind-blowingly nuts. But I simply must  write.

Most writers do not become successes in a 24 hour period. Can you comment on your writing experiences, rejection slips, etc.

A brutal rejection slip actually was the best thing that happened to me as a writer.  I had published many articles in a local newspaper, but hadn’t published any of the category romance books I’d been writing for years.

To be baldly honest, the reason I was trying to break into the category romance field was because I didn’t think I was smart enough to write women’s fiction. I didn’t think I could create interesting enough characters or develop a deep enough plotline with cool twists and turns and the right pacing to be published. Yes, I know, that doesn’t say much for my self esteem as a writer.

The romance editors at major houses were very encouraging. I’d sit down, write up the first chapter and a synopsis and send it in.  They would then ask for the first three chapters. So, I’d sit down, write the three chapters up, and send it in. The editors would then ask for the whole book. So I’d sit down, write it up, send it in.

Then the publishing house would reject it, usually with detailed two page rejection letters, and ask me to try again.  This was, of course, tremendously disappointing. All that work, for nothing. Still, after flinging myself against a wall a few times, I hung in there and kept writing.

The brutal slammer was when I went through the above process and had an editor with a name that starts with S who worked for a company that starts with an S tell me over the phone she was pretty sure they would buy my book if I made a few minor edits. I made the requested edits. To make a long story short, the editor didn’t actually make a final decision on the book for two years.  I wrote a scathing letter and the publishing house ended up apologizing to me for the length of time the process took. They encouraged me to write again and submit all future work to the head editor.

The book, however, was rejected.

Crushing.

I could either start banging my head against my keyboard and muttering strange things to myself, or I could quit writing category romance completely.

I quit.

And then later I finally, finally, finally wrote something that meant something to me.

I let my imagination fly and I let my characters be the wild, devoted, screaming, lost, strange, quiet, secret-harboring, desperate, joyful, lusty, pig-loving people they needed to be. I let the plot grow organically instead of trying to shove it into a rigid formula. I addressed issues I wanted addressed that were close to my heart and I tried to inject humor. I wanted to reach women. I wanted to give them a book that would allow them to escape from life for a few hours, a book with characters they could relate to. A book that would make them laugh.

I sent Julia’s Chocolates to the five top agents/editors I could find. I figured I could then say I was rejected by the best. The editor never answered. Three of the agents asked for the book. I went with my favorite agent. He sold it to Kensington Publishing in about a month as part of a two book deal.

Any advice for writers who are not yet published?

Right here I’m supposed to say: Never quit. Keep writing.

But that would be pretty hypocritical because I did quit for a time (see above) because  the rejections had gotten me too down. I needed time off, away from my computer and I needed to get a life. I got a life, got my head back on straight, and started writing again. I have also taken time off writing because of some serious life issues that came my way. I don’t regret it.

If you’re in the midst, as I was, of rejection slip hell, allow yourself a moment for a “literary temper tantrum.” Allow yourself to believe that the editor who rejected your book has giant warts on her ears, a voice like an boar, a bottom the size of Oklahoma, and no friends.  Then let it slide. Let it go. Write again.

Except

Except when you’re writing isn’t bringing you any joy at all. Except when you’re so down and so steamin’ mad you can’t get that writing flow back. Except when your writing is causing your family and pals to avoid you as they would a rabid tiger because you have become an obsessive schmuck. Then take a break

For a little while.

Looking back, I should have quit trying to break into the category romance market about two years before I did.  It was hopeless. I was not going to get published in romance. I should have seen that but I let my determination to succeed override all rational judgment.

My agent laughed when I told him about my romance rejections and said to me, “Well, you’re not a romance writer, Cathy.” He’s right. I’m not. I can’t do it. I can’t be boxed in like that. Julia’s Chocolates has romance in it, but it’s not completely a romance. Now where was my brain all those years? Why couldn’t I see that for myself sooner? Who knows.

So, my advice would be that if you’re trying to write for a particular genre and you keep getting rejected, rejected, rejected, take a step back and ask yourself if you’re in the right place, if it’s a good fit, and if it’s possible for you to be successful in this area. If it is, stay with it. If it’s not, move on.

In terms of other advice, I would say that writers should write all the time. They also should read all the time and be very selective about what they read and why they’re reading it. I look at the New York Times book reviews and the top 20 list for book suggestions. I listen to friends and acquaintances who are book aficionados. I read what the people in my book club tell me to read. I read fiction and non-fiction, American and international writers, classics and contemporary. I read The Oregonian and the New York Times regularly.  If you want to write well, read well.

My last piece of advice if you want to be a writer: Hang out with your kids, be kind to your spouse or partner, go to cool parties, have parties and make everyone wear pink, travel to small towns with windmills and bright cities with kooky corners, hike through the woods when it’s raining, walk on the beach in the fog, laugh a lot, get rid of pesky people in your life, sing loud in church, dance even if you can’t groove at all, volunteer your time all the time, stop worrying about your weight, and dress up like a pirate on Halloween.  You gotta live well to write well, so go live.

What’s your daily schedule like?

I would love to say I am one of those dedicated writers who works from 9:00 – 5:00 in a sunny private office in the middle of 20 acres out in the country.  Or, that I work in some drafty and ghost – ridden attic with a bat and a rat that I climb up to each day via a secret staircase in the ceiling.

The truth is, I try to have a schedule and write regularly during the day, but am often distracted by my life. Mornings don’t work for me because I don’t think anyone should work in the morning, it’s uncivilized. Afternoons are shaky because I like to go to cafes and drink coffee and then I have our kids and their friends here and I have to shuttle them eight million places. Early evenings don’t work well because of a husband who likes me to hang out with him and a small meal called “dinner” I must prepare.  So, usually, after I get the kids in bed, I work. I love the blackness and softness of night and it’s pretty much the only time my brain gears down enough for me to concentrate. I don’t sleep much.

How do you balance writing and family life?

What a funny question. Here’s what most women know: There is no balance. It is an illusion. “Balance,” in fact, is a stupid word that was invented so counselors and self-help gurus would have a new vocab word to throw around and about. Feel like you’re running around like your hair is on fire, ladies? Well, it is.  And if you stopped for a second, you’d see what I’m talking about and grab a fire extinguisher. Ladies, do not strive for balance, it’s just one more thing you’ll feel like you’re failing at. Strive for sanity, shaved armpits, clothes without dirt spots, control over your hot flashes, cool friends, bras that fit, an invisible moustache, a working memory, and a lot of time at the local coffee shop so you can drown your sorrows in mochas. Going to a coffee shop is certainly cheaper than laying on someone’s couch so he can tell you that you need “balance.”

Give me a break. Strike that word from your life. Sheesh.

Where do you get your ideas for your books?

I get my ideas from my head. I have a bizarre imagination. I also get my ideas while running, watching plays and musicals, listening to the symphony, staring at a tulip, laughing with my kids, listening, listening, listening, reading newspapers and magazines, walking on the beach, staring at Mt. Hood, tracking a white butterfly, and watching the wind.

Favorite books?

Too many. This is a partial list.

• People of the Book
• Night
• Infidel
• The Immortal Life Of Henrietta Lacks
• Unbroken
• The Cellist of Saravejo
• The Heretic’s Daughter
• Love, Loss, and What I wore
• The Vagina Monologues
• Lakota Woman by Mary Crow Dog
• Snowflower and the Secret Fan
• Water for Elephants
• The Color Purple
• Year of Wonders
• The Queen’s Fool
• The Book Thief
• Those Who Save Us
• The True Story of Hansel and Gretel
• Remarkable Creatures
• Girl With A Pearl Earring
• The Nazi Officer’s Wife
• The Nineteenth Wife
• Daughters of the Witching Hill
• Sarah’s Key
• One Thousand White Women
• A Single Thread
• The Help
• Cutting For Stone
• Songs of the Gorilla Nation
• The Guernsay Literary and Potato Peel Society
• A Walk In The Woods
• Erma Bombeck’s books
• Song Yet Sung
• A Long Way Gone
• The Art of Racing in the Rain
• Escape
• American Bloomsbury
• Look Me In The Eye
• Warrior King
• Manic
• The Color of Water
• The Lady and the Unicorn
• The Virgin Blue
• The Red Tent by Anita Diamant
• The Bookseller of Kabul and A Hundred and One Days: A Baghdad Journal, both by Asne Seierstad
• The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini.
• Cutting for Stone
• Books by Alexander McCall Smith with Mma Ramotswe
• Swallows of Kabul by Yasmina Khadra
• The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time by Mark Haddon
• Songs of the Gorilla Nation: My journey through autism by Dawn Prince-Hughes
• The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kid
• The Divine Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood by Rebecca Wells
• Of Mice and Men and Cannery Row by John Steinbeck
• The Other Boleyn Girl by Philippa Gregory
• The Diving Bell and the Butterfly by  Jean-Dominique Bauby
• The Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffenegger
• The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls
• Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt
• The Number On Ladies Detective Agency
• To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee
• I Know Why The Cage Bird Sings
• Shanghai Diary by Ursula Bacon
• Tuesdays with Morrie by Mitch Albom
• Any book by Kaye Gibbons
• Mama Makes Up Her Mind: And Other Dangers of Southern Living by Bailey White
• The Nineteenth Wife
• Look Me In The Eye My Life With Asperger’s
• The Seamstress
• The Wolves of Andover
• A Walk in The Woods
• Girls in Translation
• Remarkable Craetures
• Where The Heart Is
• Stolen Innocence/Polygamist
• All of Wally Lamb’s books
• A Long Way Gone
• The Hiding Place

Great Books on Writing

Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott.
On Writing by Stephen King.
Writing out the Storm by Jessica Morrell
The Right to Write by Julia Cameron

Best Children’s Book Author

(My friend, fellow scribe, lunch partner) Trudy Ludwig