TNB Books, 2011.

228 pgs/$14.99

In the title essay of her collection, My Dead Pets Are Interesting, Lenore Zion recounts how she told a man on their first date about her dog being hit by a car. He didn’t want to hear it. He asked about her childhood pets, but he wanted to hear about their lives, not their deaths. Zion uses this scene to draw attention to her problem:

“I remember only the disgusting details of events in my life, and nothing else. I don’t usually find these things disgusting, but I’ve determined by the reactions of others whom I’ve spoken with that the details are disgusting, and that people would really rather I not share these details.”

“The issue here is this: When I weed out all the things that I would naturally include in a conversation, I am left with virtually nothing. No contributions. No pleasantries. All I have is the voice in my head screaming and screaming. Tell her about that time you fell and broke your tooth and blood was seeping from your mouth and you were laughing and laughing and laughing!  Or tell her about that guy you saw the first year you lived in Los Angeles. You know, the guy who leaned over and vomited on the head of a little Mexican woman at a bus stop!”

 

The content of Zion’s personal essays is not always disgusting, but it is the kind of content that would be excluded from polite conversation. In “Cognitive Dissonance,” for example, she writes about an obese woman she sat beside on a long flight. Zion wishes that the woman was thinner, because her “side-fat” invades Zion’s personal space. This thought might be considered offensive for everyday conversation, and if not, it is certainly as far as the conversation would go. But the essay goes much further. Zion shares a strange habit: “When I am touched by a man I don’t know, or even just a man I don’t know well, I instantly think of sex. I imagine what he might be like it bed…” And this strange habit doesn’t pertain only to men. Zion continues, “Now I was fighting the urge to picture this beast naked and trying to breastfeed from my tits.” Before the story ends, Zion depicts this woman as a sexual deviant, even saying, “this sticky fat woman next to me is party to some pretty bawdy aspects of sexuality, that’s for certain.” When the woman moves, finally retreating from Zion’s side of the armrest to reach into her carry-on bag, the author has a brief moment of panic, wondering what cruel, disgusting apparatus the woman could be producing. The lady retrieves a bag of strawberries and offers to share them with Zion, which leads the author to conclude, “Then I realized: She’s a nice woman. She’s not the problem. I am. I’m the sick freak.” This is a welcome epiphany, but “sick freak” is too harsh. Everyone has perverted or gruesome thoughts at times. Zion is generous enough to share hers. Continue reading →