conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the first five paragraphs for a book with the title 'Gross Anatomy'. End with the sentence '"'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Gross Anatomy
  To become a master at any one thing, it is said that one must practice it for 10,000 hours. I have been living in my body for 306,600 hours, yet I still feel like a novice at operating this bag of meat. As soon as I feel like I've got everything figured out, something changes—boobs spring out of my chest, I sprout a mustache, floaters homestead in my eyeballs—and I'm left shocked, bewildered, and yet ultimately quite curious. I cannot tell you the number of times I've wondered, especially after a spicy meal, why evolution wasn't smart enough to build us with buttholes made out of something more durable. Lead piping, perhaps?
  I'd like to say that I spend my time trying to cure cancer, eradicate hunger, and put an end to global warming, but my brain is naturally inclined toward questions about the human female body. I spend most days wondering about the potential aerodynamic advantages of camel toes and why, when we are built to sweat, I often find myself hiding in a public restroom, drying off my pit stains to pretend that I don't have glands. Why does my dog, every time I squat down, make a beeline for my crotch? The only other thing she's drawn to with such consistency is the garbage can.
  Let's, for a moment, suspend the idea of self-accountability and attempt to blame these bodily fixations on my parents. They grew up during the 1960s and were the kind of hippies who were so hippie that they refused to be called hippie. "Hippies were so conformist," my mom has always told me.
  My parents first met in high school and then dropped out of UC Berkeley together. They began growing plants—mostly cacti and succulents—in their backyard and then, to make a living, sold them to local grocery stores and via mail-order catalogues.
  My mom never wore any image-altering materials—no makeup, deodorant, perfume, push-up bras, or high heels. She has refused antiaging creams and would never dream of fillers. (When she read this, she said, "What are fillers?" Sheesh!) She didn't even shave her legs or armpits, and still doesn't to this day. I thought all that was normal female behavior until late elementary school, when I noticed that other moms didn't have a great black muff under their arms when they waved their children in from the playground. I imagined that astronauts could spot my mom from space. "Houston, we have a problem—there appear to be two errant black holes near San Diego's suburbs."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: five more paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Being constantly reminded that between my legs there was an odor, something potent enough to attract furry animals, brought up both the insecurity and the fascination I've had about vaginal scents over the years.
  I jumped off on this exploration exactly where my interest first became piqued: What was it about the human vulva that attracted dogs?
  Believe it or not, it wasn't easy to find any trained scientists who were open to sharing their knowledge about why a dog might like to huff vaginas, but after a few false leads—"No, I have not conducted research about human crotches as an attractant to canines"—I finally found one.
  George Preti is a chemist at the Monell Chemical Senses Center, and in his long and illustrious career, not only has he studied armpit secretions, but he has also trained dogs to sniff out ovulating cows to help ranchers more successfully inseminate the heifers. Currently, he's training dogs to detect cancer.
  He graciously took time away from saving people's lives to let me ask him some questions. "Why does my dog go gonzo about my crotch?" I asked. There was something embarrassing about this occurrence. I didn't know if it was because my crotch was more overtly pungent than other crotches or if my crotch was like a sunset to her—she finds it so beautiful that each day she can appreciate it anew.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the last two paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Before we left for the day, we tried our hand at pickleball. By that time, six p.m., everyone had deserted his or her athletic pursuits for the potluck and live DJ happening down at the rec hall, so we had the place to ourselves. We slipped on our tennis shoes and went to the courts. With thirty-five extra pounds, I wasn't tremendously agile, but I did my best, which mostly meant standing in one place while my mom ran around collecting balls that I couldn't run and hit.
  Before we left, I needed to do one more thing. I surreptitiously peeled off the orange sticker and handed my phone to my mom. I went deep and held up my racket as if about to hit a ball. I wanted a photo to remind myself of everything—the hair, the sweat, the swollen ankles, the acne covering both face and chest, and the massive ball of babies on my front—because in that moment, that's who I was and there was no shame.