A frank, witty, and dazzlingly written memoir of one woman trying to keep it together while her body falls apart—from the “brilliant mind” (Michaela Coel, creator of I May Destroy You) behind Shutterbabe “The most laugh-out-loud story of resilience you’ll ever read and an essential road map for the importance of narrative as a tool of healing.”—Lori Gottlieb, bestselling author of Maybe You Should Talk to Someone NAMED ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY REAL SIMPLE I’m crawling around on the bathroom floor, picking up pieces of myself. These pieces are not a metaphor. They are actual pieces. Twenty years after her iconic memoir Shutterbabe, Deborah Copaken is at her darkly comedic nadir: battered, broke, divorcing, dissected, and dying—literally—on sexism’s battlefield as she scoops up what she believes to be her internal organs into a glass container before heading off to the hospital . . . in an UberPool. Ladyparts is Copaken’s irreverent inventory of both the female body and the body politic of womanhood in America, the story of one woman brought to her knees by the one-two-twelve punch of divorce, solo motherhood, healthcare Frogger, unaffordable childcare, shady landlords, her father’s death, college tuitions, sexual harassment, corporate indifference, ageism, sexism, and plain old bad luck. Plus seven serious illnesses, one atop the other, which provide the book’s narrative skeleton: vagina, uterus, breast, heart, cervix, brain, and lungs. Copaken bounces back from each bum body part, finds workarounds for every setback—she transforms her home into a commune to pay rent, sells her soul for health insurance, turns FBI informant when her sexual harasser gets a presidential appointment—but in her slippery struggle to survive a steep plunge off the middle-class ladder, she is suddenly awoken to what it means to have no safety net. Side-splittingly funny one minute, a freak horror show the next, quintessentially American throughout, Ladyparts is an era-defining memoir.

How might women in the Bible tell their stories if they were prompted to do so by Eve Ensler's controversial play, The Vagina Monologues? This collection imagines some answers to that question. The monologues herein are written by a variety of authors, including scholars, undergraduates, clergy, and laywomen; the content of the narratives reflects this variety, being at times faithful or irreverent, tragic or even funny. All seek to give twenty-first-century voices to women in canonical texts--including the Hebrew Bible, Deuterocanonical books, and New Testament--who are often speechless, nameless, or otherwise marginalized. Not for the faint of heart, these monologues not only end the silences but also add flesh and bone to characters whose experiences have too easily been justified, metaphorized, or altogether ignored. By naming the torn places in these women's stories, this volume invites readers to encounter both the biblical characters and their contemporary interpreters with an attitude of compassionate listening. Our hope is that such compassionate listening may contribute not only to more just readings of sacred texts, but also to the mission of Eve Ensler and V-Day to end global violence against women and girls.

Please note: This is a companion version & not the original book. Sample Book Insights: #1 I was twelve hours from death when I called the surgeon who had removed my cervix. I was loath to cry wolf again, but my apartment looked like a crime scene. I was crying medium-sized dog, possibly rabid. #2 I was grateful for my escape from a toxic and lonely marriage, but I’ve been as alone as I’ve ever been. My eldest has been living with his girlfriend in Bangkok, where he’s teaching English. My youngest is away at summer camp. #3 I was downsized, and I couldn’t afford a home health aide or food. I was forced to go to the hospital, where my daughter brought me some blood clots that turned out to be giant blood clots. I was hemorrhaging enough already. #4 I had no memory of entering the hospital, but a trail of blood indicated that I had. Emergency room receptionist, asking for my name. Other voices had taken over the task of speaking it. My name was unretrievable because my divorce was taking longer than expected.