Are You There Vodka? It’s Me, Chelsea. by Chelsea Handler
8 min on the F train into Manhattan
The visits with Genevieve and the baby were getting awkward.
Brenda knew her friend thought she was a prude; Genevieve thought all Americans were uptight about their naked bodies. But Brenda had no issues with bare breasts or breast feeding. Her issue was with Genevieve’s unabashed indulgence in her semi-nudity while on her holy mission of nourishing “this life form she had created”. Brenda also hated the way she talked about it all. Genevieve’s constant awe about her power to create life made it seem as if she plucked her son fully formed from the side of her neck. Brenda almost expected her to start dressing like Aphrodite or some other diaphanous clad Olympic goddess with a perpetually exposed tit.
But the really truly unbearable part of Genevieve’s nursing was the cooing french accent asking the baby if he was enjoying his sucky sucky.
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