The good

Despite not knowing how to differentiate between a Labrador Retriever and a Chihuahua ( ok, I’m exaggerating ), I love this book to its bit. A self-confessed non pet lover, I rolled my eyes when Seow Sung first passed me this book of hers. I’m glad that I gave it a try. Putting aside the storyline, well, actually the storyline is pretty heart warming; what I love most is John’s hilarious writing. John is so humorous and clever that he can come out with wittiest metaphor for every possible situation. Wish I can write like him one day… just wishful distant dream, after all he is a well-known columnist and I am an engineer. He plays with words, I play with circuits. Alright, since it’s a holiday today and I’m feeling generous, let me brush up my typing skill a little by transcribing a chunk of his masterpiece here.


pg88
It was at this same time, as we debated slicing away Marley’s manbood, that Jenny was placing unprecedented demands on mine. Dr. Sherman had cleared her to try to get pregnant again. She accepted the challenge with the single-mindedness of an Olympic athlete. The days of simply putting away the birth control pills and letting whatever might happen happen were behind us. In the insemination wars, Jenny was going on the offensive. For that, she needed me, a key ally who controlled the flow of ammunition. Like most males, I had spent every waking moment from the age fifteen trying to convince the opposite sex that I was a worthy mating partner. Finally, I had found someone who agreed. I should have been thrilled. For the first time in my life, a woman wanted me more than I wanted her. This was a guy heaven. No more begging, no more groveling. Like the best stud dogs, I was at last in demand. I should have been ecstatic. But suddenly it all just seemed like work, and stressful work at that. It was not a rollicking good romp that Jenny craved from me; it was a baby. And that meant I had a job to perform. This was serious business. That most joyous of acts overnight become a clinical drill involving basal-temperature checks, menstrual calendars, and ovulation charts. I felt like I was in service to the queen.

The Grogan men have never handled pressure well, and I was no exception. It was only a matter of time before I suffered the ultimate male humiliation; performance failure. And once that happened, the game was over. My confidence was shot, my nerve gone. If it happened once, I knew it could happen again. Failure evolved into a self-fulfilling prophecy. The more I worried about performing my husbandly duty, the less I was able to relax and do what had always come naturally. I quashed all signs of physical affection lest I put ideas in Jenny’s head. I began to live in mortal fear that my wife would, God forbid, ask me to rip her clothes off and have my way with her. I began thinking that perhaps a life of celibacy in a remote monastery wouldn’t be such a bad future after all.

See how well he penned the difficult-to-describe situation into something so amusing, interesting and concise.