18-year-old virgin boys need to stop contacting me online. I am never going to take your virginity. No one wants that. Eeew. I don’t remember a whole lot about my past, but I do remember that debacle. I thank God every day that I’m not at the age where we lose our virginity.
This is crazy pants. I don’t know if I look like a bored housewife, that still has some edge, or if I just look approachable. Or, maybe they just think I’m so flipping low that I wouldn’t have another option, but, somehow this is a big market for me. And, it sucks.
I can see how an 18-year-old virgin girl would be appealing to men, but 18-year-old boys don’t have that same allure. It doesn’t sound like fun at all. It sounds like work. I don’t even like training people at work, when they pay me to. I never tutored in high school. And, they don’t have any helpful videos for this kind of thing. There’s no, “It’s My Clitoris, Charlie Brown!” I’m just not in.
It’s a biological thing, too. Chemically, you smell like piss. I understand why you douche with axe body spray, but honestly- if you’d just shower regularly and wear clean clothes- that should fix it. If you still feel like you need axe, consult a doctor. Axe is fucking chloroform. Stop trying to date rape people. It’s fucking tacky.
So, I like to turn them down by asking what their dad is up to. He’s usually in my age range, and they know I think they’re cute. I’d make an awesome fucking step-mom to a grown kid, I just have an unflinchingly rigid age requirement for bumping uglies.
Besides, if I let them come over, they eat my kid’s toaster strudels.
My dad isn’t racist. I think I can make that true.
In 1978, my dad did blackface.
The first time I told this joke on stage, this is as far as I got. The audience inhaled so quickly that I lost my nerve and I ended the set there. It was very much like, “My dad did blackface. Thank you, goodnight!” And, I ran off the stage. So…
In 1978, my dad decided to go to a Halloween party as Richard Pryor. It was not a good idea, even then it wasn’t a classy move. But, he really wanted to do it.
And, he totally committed. My Machete-looking, like maybe he has throwing knives in his leather vest, dad bought black stage foundation, grew a thick moustache, and had a perm put into his thick Mexican hair. It was truly a proud Soul Glow moment. He got a polo shirt and a knitted hat with a pom-pom. He was in all the way. He did ALL the cocaine.
And, he ran around the party telling people to, “Kiss his happy black ass.”
This is why I grew up in a house with a pic of my dad in blackface hugging my Uncle Rudy, wearing a hotdog costume. Rudy decided not to be political that year, I guess.
And, I can see how it’s not okay, absolutely. But, I think that the case can be made that he wasn’t being racist, he was being a fangirl.
Definitely misplaced, but not a hate crime.
I’ve recently moved to Salem, and I don’t know anyone. So, I decided to install Tinder. WOW. I felt just like Madeline Khan in the History of the World. It was awesome. “Yes, no, no, yes, no, no, yes, no, no, no, no, no, no…” Like that. Decadence.
It’s just face pics, but, if you ask, they’ll totally send dick pics. And, I like a dick pic. I’m a fat kid. I like to know how my dinner is going to be served. But, it’s deceptive. You can have great text and mail chemistry with someone, then have no real life spark at all.
Which is why I’ve come to the conclusion that online dating isn’t worth the trouble. I’m a good soldier. When you book a date with me, I show up, showered and shaved, 10 minutes early.
That’s just how I was raised. My dad was Navy, and you had to be on time. Ten minutes early was on time, so anything after that was late. It didn’t matter how late it got, once you were late, you were just screwed.
So, I’ll shave for twenty minutes for a date. Arms, legs, pits, anything that had been tattooed has to be shaved and lotioned. That’s just my life.
And, I thought this guy was something… We’d been flirting and sexting. I totally thought this was going to happen. So, I did my due diligence and shaved the rest of my areas, too. I’m not kidding. It took 45 minutes. I shaved for 45 minutes to eat tacos with a guy that I was never going to sleep with. It’s crazy!
And, I haven’t been completely bald since I was in my 20s. I’d forgotten how much this itches. If the date had gone better, I’d be getting checked out at Planned Parenthood right now. As it stands, I’m dying to drag my taint across the carpet like a dog with worms.
This was a heinous mistake.
I’ve got an idea for online dating forums. I think we should install a ‘full disclosure’ feature. You have to put in 50 characters that really tell the entire truth. And, it’s gotta’ be backed up by Snopes. You should have to disclose things like:
If you’re a sex-offender.
Don’t let me get two tacos into the date before you reveal that ‘she looked 18, I swear.’ I’m not interested in eating Mexican food with a rapist. I’m sorry. I’m a judgmental prick that way.
If you have an STD.
If you have an STD and you’re on Tinder, you are an asshole, and I wish nothing for your future save anal fissures and a tightening of the urethra.
If you’re coming directly from a funeral.
Maybe don’t make a date for that evening. I shouldn’t have to say that…
If you weren’t attracted to me, but you thought I looked ‘easy.’
What the fuck does that even mean? Who wants to have sex with someone that they’re not attracted to? That makes NO sense. I think you’re repugnant, but I’ll stick my dick in anything, so…
So, my ‘full disclosure’ would look something like this:
FD: I will stop texting you after 3 dates, so you know we’re not in a relationship. Also, I will totally smoke your pot.
I don’t know if you can tell, but I’m pretty open with my sexuality.
I’m straight, so that’s the easiest sexuality to be open about, really.
My daughter is gay, though. She came out –in classic form– as weirdly as possible. She came up, and was all fidgety and obviously freaked out.
And, the first thing I noticed about her was that she didn’t look like this: (pantomime teen with phone). If you have kids, then you know. They all look like this now, just hair, and like a small plastic rectangle about five inches from their sweat-covered face.
So, I knew something was up, cause I could see her eyes, which was cool, because I’d forgotten that they’re blue. But she was all nervous and squiggly, so there was definitely something afoot. So, intuitive parent that I am, I said, “Do you have to pee?”
“No… “ She sighed, “I have to tell you something.” She was twisting and dancing in place, like a spaz.
And, I was a pregnant 17-year-old girl once, so I’m pretty sure I went into shock. The whole left side of my body started to tingle, and I could have sworn I was having a coronary, and I had this intense flashback of having to tell my Dad that I was preggy. I got clammy. My mouth was dry. It was very surreal. And, I remember the terror and fear, and the immediate judgement and hatred of bits of my family.
So, I got my bong off the shelf and took a really large hit.
“Okay,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Mom, I’m gay.”
“Okay?” And, I’m obviously confused, because this is not the conversation I thought we were going to be having. So, I took another hit off the bong in celebration.
Then, she said, “That’s not all… I’m not just gay. I’m bisexual. That’s a thing now, Mom.”
That’s a thing now, Mom?
I know that’s a thing! I studied history! I went to an art college! My 15-year-old did not invent bisexuality. Does she think she leads Rome?!
So, I’m indignant about that, but she’s still all weird, so, I look at her, and I’m like… “What’s up?”
“Well, are you okay with that?”
I’d actually prefer to unsubscribe to this particular info chain. I could die a happy woman, secure in her bed, having no knowledge of what my daughter might be doing with her genitals. But, no… I wanted us to be close. I see now how that’s a mistake. If you choose an approachable parenting style, they are going to talk to you about their genitals and genital functions. It’s a trick! Cold and withholding is where it’s at. I could be blissfully oblivious right now.
And, I'm probably the last person on the planet who wants to Bible-thump at you. I don't really care how God feels about homosexuality. Interesting fact: He has two lines against it in the bible, but also says over 1500 times that we are to love our brother. So, if he really felt one way or the other... There's evidence that love would triumph.
But, I said, “Of course. Why would I care?”
She said, “Some parents do.”
And, I said, “No. There’s no way, in 2016, that parents still care.” Because I just want happy children that become well-educated, hard-working, and warm-hearted adults… who are mercifully quiet about their nude shenanigans to their mother.
Good evening. I’ve gathered you here today to discuss an interesting epidemic – lack of acceptable and stylish female beards… I have a lot of male friends that do No-Shave November and beard competitions, and I’m always sick jealous. That’s so cool. They get little moustache trophies. And, they don’t have anything like that for women. It’s an effing shame. I’m half-Mexican, so if I rub hard enough, I could grow thick, black hair… on YOU, for example… It’s pretty crazy, but There are no trophies for that kind of thing…
I showered and everything, in preparation for this. I shaved. I’ve got some tattoos, so, I shave pretty much everything from the neck down. It takes a living year. I’m like Forrest Gump mowing a college campus. I need to purchase a riding mower… Staff it out to the landscaping company.
I live in Oregon now, so the landscaping guys are hot. All the guys are hot. I’m from New Mexico, where all the guys are Mexican 5’10”… which is 5’8”. They’re still hot, it’s just scaled to 85%. Like God held the shift key, but dragged from the corner, so the hotness retained its proportionality.
I’m divorced. 18 years, now. So… I don’t want to brag, but I’m getting really good at it. Like all relationships, my divorce is a work in progress. I keep at it. I’m dedicated to being relentlessly single every day, I’m doing my part to repel most men – I’m just naturally good at that, and… I stretch.
There’s not always a winner when a couple divorces. Sometimes, it’s more equal: he gets this bar, she gets this restaurant, one takes the dog, and the other takes the cat and houseplants, you know, to make weight. It’s not always easy to see who won. But, I won. I soooooo fucking won.
He went to prison for 10 years for pedophilia, so I win. Like, you can see how I win. Admittedly, it’s not much of a victory. But, hey, at least I’m not a pedophile!
So, Jane, how do you marry a pedophile, you ask? It’s a mixture of things. Stupidity, youth, gullibility… that and, I love making bad decisions. It’s my thing… Kinda’ my jam…
No, this was before that. This bad decision sets the bar for the rest of my decision making. Actually, it knocks the bar to the floor, and shits on the bar. But, I was young.
Hi. I’m Jane… I may not be funny, but at least you’ll get to look at my boobs for about five minutes, so it’s not a total loss. And, when you hear about my tragic death later, you’ll be able to rule out drowning immediately, which is totally a possibility here, in the Pacific Northwest.
I just moved here from Albuquerque, New Mexico a couple months ago. That’s a fucking change! We have no water; you guys are MADE of water. I keep looking for broken pipes everywhere, on the roads, in the house. I fell asleep with the window open, and it rained. I woke up, and couldn’t figure out how water got on my floor. I’m looking for broken pipes everywhere, when I realize there ARE NO pipes in my bedroom. There aren’t pipes in any bedroom. It’s definitely a change. Everything looks like an effing park. I’ve never seen so much grass! You’re all spoiled, is what it is.
Did you know your Zoo doesn’t smell? By the way, typically, zoos are notorious for smelling terrible. I took my kids to visit the Oregon Zoo, and we’re walking the three miles or whatnot, around all the trails and exhibits, and it smells like fucking FLOWERS. Do you know that’s not what zoos smell like? I’m from the desert, where the zoos smell like fresh, exotic animal shit, steaming in the 109-degree heat. I don’t think you guys understand how lucky you are. It’s like the fucking Promised Land, like I wandered in the fucking desert for 35 years, and then made it to a pot-infused, socialist Shangra-la… It’s BIBLICAL. I’m never going home.
I’m a graphic designer by trade, which is good… ‘cause I’d starve to death as a hooker.
I’m extremely awkward, and I have social anxiety, so this is both terrifying and cathartic. I get nervous when I have to buy toilet paper. The checkout guy at my grocery store is hot, so I have to get checked out by the lady, or I can’t buy toilet paper at all.
Men hate me. And, in NM, where they’re all about 4’6”, that doesn’t bother me. Here, where they all look like tattooed, bearded Gods, it’s different. I live next to a man that I call Mr. November. He’s hotter than all the men in NM combined. All the men here are Adonis-like. I could never be faithful, here. And, I thought I’d be exotic or something here, but I’m just as chubby at sea-level as I am in the high desert. It’s bullshit.
I got married at 17. Yeah, that’s the whole joke. I got married at 17.
You’re an IDIOT if you get married at 17. You’re not even a fully formed person at 17. You’re still developing lungs for Christ’s sake. And, I was particularly ridiculous. I was goth, and, yet, I was into the Bloodhound Gang. I had a Savage Garden CD. I was still watching ‘Clarissa Explains It All’ in earnest. I was an IDIOT child. You know, 17.
But, I was pregnant. So… We got married.
A quick note about my background: I’m half Mexican, from Albuquerque, New Mexico, and my parents were raised strictly Catholic. In 1984, after they had my sister, they converted to non-denominational Protestant Christians, which was a huge leap for my father.
Catholic and Protestant are the same religion, but don’t mention that because you'll get murdered. You’d think they’d be able to set aside their differences in a general appreciation of ‘we worship from the same book; it’s more about the author kind of way.’ But, it’s just not like that, at all. It’s not too far from if when JK Rowling had written Harry Potter, we all loved it so much that half of us went to war over the other half not loving it enough in the right way. Like, “You don’t denounce Voldemort passionately enough!” And, then you stab them, or put them on racks, or whatever. “Acknowledge Ginny Weasley's true diety!” Slice ‘em with a sword! Bowels everywhere. They gasp, “I swear, I have always loved the Weasleys,” as they pass into the great beyond. It’s effing nuts… But, suffice to say, my parents are religious. So, at 17, and pregnant, I got married.
His parents boycotted the wedding, because “I was a bad influence.” Now, I was no blushing virgin bride at this point, but he was an 18-year-old high school boy, so… it’s not like he hadn’t thought about it. I didn’t have to twist his arm too hard… I didn’t exactly ‘lead him down the primrose path…’ but, they hated me. Probably still do.
Imagine, if you can: You’re in high-school, you’re 18, you live in your parents’ house, and and you’ve just gotten a tattooed, chubby girl pregnant. What do you do? You join the US ARMY. So, you graduate on Wednesday, get married on Friday, and leave for basic training on Monday. I wasn’t surprised when he was a dick. That’s a sick downshift, for anyone.
And, it was this belief --that the stress of this epic of life change would crack anyone-- I clung to when it first went badly...
I’m a mouthy piece. I know that, you know that… And, you can imagine the horror when all 200lbs. of my pissed ass is yelling at you. I know I’m more than most when angry. I’ve been told I have a ‘masculine energy.’ I don’t mind. I’ve got a vagina, but I’m not particularly girly. I don’t have a favorite princess or anything… Okay, I do. Grace of Monaco, guys, she was just effervescent -- but that’s a different thing…
So, I didn’t hold it against him the five times my idiot husband beat me up. Four of them were halfway my fault for staying with a man who had beaten me up. I could have left. I should have left. I’m not without fault. And, he was a fucking KID, dealing with things that were a decade beyond his depth. But, that’s where my particular sympathy for that devil ends.
Our daughter was born exactly one week before my 18th birthday. He didn’t get me a present, because “He just gave me a baby.” Turns out, she’s the best present ever. She’s totally weird. She’s a fangirl, and she writes fan fiction. She’s a greasy, nerdy, sensitive, amazing mess, and we’ve grown up together. I’m very lucky. But, damn, she’s effing weird.
She makes these sandwiches – it’s just bread and ketchup. She calls them ‘ketchup sandwiches.’ Yeah. And, I was a cook for years, at a lovely Italian place, then a gorgeous French place, and my daughter eats ‘Ramen Spaghetti.’ It’s got two ingredients, and I bet you can guess them both: Ramen noodles, and jarred Spaghetti sauce. It kills me a bit inside… She eats it almost every day.
I worry that it might be my fault that she’s so weird, ‘cause I know it’s 50% environment, and 50% genetics, so she’s… screwed. Screwed is the official ruling on that. And, then, there’s this one time, when she was about two that she was toddling down the driveway out towards the street, and I could see an oncoming car in the distance. So, I ran over there, and grabbed her midget jeans at the belt, just before she stepped off the curb, and onto road. The only problem with this is that she – like all toddlers – was top heavy. They have these really huge heads. You cannot grab them at the waist and stop them. You need to grab a shoulder, because they are so head-heavy that if you grab them by the waist, they will tip over, face first, and crunch their little face bones into the pavement. This is exactly what happened. My daughter’s nose swelled like Marcia Brady’s in that one with the football? Yeah. Like that. And it was so bruised it was black. She looked like a koala. I had to keep her inside for a week so the neighbors wouldn’t call child services.
I'm Jane Malone.