This book is about wendy's dad died. In the paragraph it says "I have to smile, even as chafe , as always at our family's pateneted inability to express emotion during watershed events. There is no occasion calling for sincerty that the foxman family won't quickly diminish or pervert through our own gentically engineer brand of irony and evasion. We banter, quip, and insult our way through birthdays, holidays, wedding, illness. Now dad is dead and wendy is craking wise. It serves him right, since he was something of a pioneer at the forefront of emotional repression. So wendy is sad because her dad died and out of no where she feels guilty.
"Why is it so hard for you to accept that your mother is a sexual being? Do you think you were immaculately conceived? I should think it would make you happy that your father and I were still fucking."
Yes. That's what she said. My mother is a sixty-three-year-old bestselling author with a Ph.D. in clinical psychology and Pamela Anderson's breasts, who talks about fucking her late husband like she's discussing current events.