Boys Don’t Like Funny Girls

Hi fellow homeless js-ers! I will be keeping this account open but will probably spend most of my time at http://jennicki.blogspot.com/

Please come visit! And often! I’d love to keep in touch with all of you!

Love,

Jenny “Jennicki”

My Ode to All Things Wiki, set to the music of Jimmy Buffet’s classic “Margaritaville.”

Let’s face it. Banks want you to work for your money. We face the indignity of being herded into line by a cheap velvet rope. As if on a busy Friday afternoon, among other weary downtowners trying to cash their paychecks during their too-short lunch hour, we’ll suddenly enter the red velvet maze and feel a touch of Hollywood glamor in our lives.

“Yes!” You think to yourself as the man in front of you frantically tries to fill out his deposit card and the woman behind you ignores her screeching baby, “This is a Calgon-Take-Me-Away moment! I can close my eyes and envision myself on the red carpet. I’ll hobnob with the entertainment reporters about my recent charitable work–tossing a sandwich at an Olsen twin, adopting one of the Jolie-Pitt kids, making sunglasses for the poor African children with Bono.”

Of course, this moment will be all-too-brief. Your reverie will be broken by the pissed-off “Next!” you’ll hear coming from the over-worked tellers, who are tired of standing on their feet all day behind bullet-proof glass counting money over and over again.

This, however, is not the worst indignity a bank can throw at you. No, my friends, the worst is that they actually keep the velvet rope up at all times. So that one day–you know that day, the kind where you find a five-dollar-bill in your coat pocket, all the traffic lights are scheduled to turn green just as you pull ahead, and you’ve gone all day without hearing a single Rhianna song on the radio–it’s that kind of day, and you walk into the bank and find the room absolutely void of lines, and there are not one but several available tellers there, just waiting to cash your check.

You excitedly wave “hello” to one of the tellers, who greets you with the slightest of smirks on his or her face. You don’t care though, because it’s that day, and you don’t have to wait 20 minutes in line! It’s just then that you realize that in order to get to the teller area, you will still have to navigate through that roped-off maze.

I’m sure everyone feels slightly stupid, making that long walk to your left, turn, long walk to your right, turn, another walk to the left, another right turn, until you get to the front. The indignity of it all. I can see the tellers get a sick little pleasure out of it. I recognize it.  It’s the same pleasure I used to get when I’d serve unsavory customers decaf coffee when they requested caffeinated. “Here’s the caffeinated coffee you requested, Mr. Crotchety Old Bat,” I’d say sweetly, with a warm smile, “This is for spitting your gum into my hand when I tried to clear your empty plate.”

I feel for these tellers. I know they’re overworked, underpaid and on their feet far too long during the day. I understand this, working in the restaurant business for so long. I always have the urge at these moments, walking like a fool through the velvet-roped maze, to turn it into a mini-marathon. I’d break out into a slow-mo jog, my arms pumping in an exaggerated fashion at my sides. As I turned the corner, I would stop and bend down, my hands on my knees, gasping for air. I’d wait a moment and then raise one hand up in the air, to let them know I’ll be alirght. I’d then continue my slow-mo job until I reached the next turn, where I would then lean over and grab a plastic cup from the water cooler and dump water over myself, shaking my head for effect. I would then start my sprint down to the finish line, reaching the teller’s area with a victory leap, my arms in the air as the Rocky theme plays in the background. The tellers would applaud and throw money at me, begging me for one more race.

At this point in my daydream, I’m usually standing in front of the teller with a goofy, satisfied smile on my face. We both win, then. They still get to laugh at me and I know that I could’ve embarrassed myself in a far, far worse sort of way.

Last week I read an essay about a woman who discovered a naughty sex toy while sorting through her elderly, recently deceased aunt’s belongings. It was a humorous little piece, but it left me with a curious wondering: how did this little old lady get her hands on such a delightful item?

Now, we live in the age of erotic electronica.  Or should that be electronic erotica? Forgive me, I’m writing this with a glass of wine tonight. The truth of the matter is that nowadays a sweet matron can discreetly get her groove on with a click of the mouse. No, I don’t mean by clicking her own mouse, you nasty perv, I mean she can order her toys online. But how, I wonder, did Nice Girls get their hands on these pleasantries years ago, before the comfort of shopping from your own home? Sure, they probably had the mail order alternative, but even then they would have needed access to a filthy catalog most likely used by truckers and Catholic priests.

These are thoughts that crept into my head over the weekend. I had a lot of time to think about it, as I spent most of Saturday and Sunday working on projects at home. I’ve concluded that Nice Girls must also frequent the occasional Adult Store to get their Bedtime Buddies.

Years ago–it seems like another lifetime, really–my boyfriend and I were driving down the highway and I commented on the numerous billboards advertising an Adult Store. My boyfriend suggested we stop and check it out at the next exit. I laughed and said jokingly, “yeah, sure.” My boyfriend hit the accelerator and within minutes I found myself standing in the parking lot of The Lion’s Den Adult Superstore.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I told him, and he persuaded me to go in with him and take a peek.

I glanced around nervously. “What if someone sees us?”

“We’re not doing anything wrong,” he said, “It’ll be fun.” I let him lead me inside.

Frankly, my first experience there scared me. It might as well have been the Devil’s Lair for all I knew. Butt plugs? Sex swings? I wandered around the aisles, a maze of smut. I wanted to turn around and leave ASAP. “Nice Girls,” I informed my boyfriend as we got back onto the highway, “do not go into Sex Stores.”

Flash-forward to the present. I’m vacuuming out my car, lost in my thoughts. I grab the ribbed hose and rub it against the material on my backseat absently. So where do Nice Girls go for their kicks? I wondered, pumping more quarters into the slot at the gas station. Is it all just online merchandise? Or do they also frequent the Adult shops? Is it really more discreet to order from home or to drive into the next town and buy from the store?

You might wonder why I’m considering all this. To be honest, I don’t really know. It’s just when I think of sex toys, I think of a really kinky, pervy, out there sort of people. Not Nice Girls. But I have a growing hunch that sex toy use among the Nice Girl (as in your average, ordinary twenty to ninety year old woman) is more common than one might imagine. And I want to know how they’re getting their clean little hands on these dirty fun toys.

I decided to do some research. Purely for the sake of Science and some sort of barely-existent Journalistic Integrity, of course. First, I went online in search of popular Adult Store sites. I haven’t frequented a Sex Store since that cherry popped on a highway with my boyfriend years ago. Years later, I am older, wiser and more experienced–still with no clue what a French Tickler may be.

I perused the sites and clicked on their ordering policies. I found that the protected sites–one must always use protection!–were discreet, with options to allow or block email updates and order status. However, nowhere could I locate any kind of guarantee that the package would not be labeled with the store’s name when delivered. This could be plenty embarrassing if you work during the day and aren’t home to receive the package in person. Also, your signature verifying that you are of age is also required upon receipt of delivery, which also poses a problem to those frisky working girls out there.

I determined that while online ordering appears easier, it still has a risk of exposure and embarrassment to the Nice Girl who doesn’t want her business made public like a trench coated flasher in a metropolitan area.

This is where I thought my research would end. After all, the alternative would be actually going to an Adult Store to weigh the shame ratio against the potential delivery embarrassment risk in online ordering.

On my way home from work tonight, I was thinking about all the Nice Girl tasks I meant to complete this evening, such as grocery shopping, walking my dogs, and tucking into bed with a nice Charlie Sheen sitcom on the TV. But as I was driving, my purely journalistic curiosity got the best of me and I veered to the North side of town toward what the locals refer to as the Taj Mahal.

The Taj Mahal is a gigantic eyesore on the edge of town, a multi-storied, multi-Sexplex complete with flashing Vegas-style lights, two strip clubs and The Love Boutique. I’d never been there, and previously had no intentions of ever going there. But I had to know.

I turned into the parking lot, which during rush hour on a Monday evening proved to be fairly sparse. I sat in my car for a moment, feeling utterly humiliated. This is the worst part, I told myself, the fear that someone might see you going in or leaving. Once you’re inside, there’s no need to be embarrassed. They see all kinds of people here. No one is going to judge you.

I slid way down in my seat and waited until  the traffic on the main road cleared. Then I got out of my car and walked quickly inside.

Upon entering The Love Boutique, I was greeted by an enormous quantity of costumes to my left, and the cashier to my right. The cashier, unfortunately, looked just like the one I’d seen from my first juncture into a Sex Shop: oily ponytail, pock-marked face, kind of makes you want to go home and shower in scalding water for hours. I’m sure not all Adult Store employees look this way. Just the ones in my limited experience.

I’m sure this guy has seen everything, and heard every excuse in the book. I put my head up and faked some confidence. “Hi,” I said to him and smiled, fighting every urge to give him some kind of excuse, some reason that I–a Nice Girl–would be in a place like this. I want to give an embarrassed laugh, roll my eyes and tell him I’m getting a gag gift for a bachelorette party. It’s on the tip of my tongue. I want to validate it. Instead, I close my mouth, nod at him and go straight to the Role Playing Area.

Oh, the costumes. I rummaged through your typical schoolgirl outfit, cheerleader costumes. I saw some French Maids, Super Woman, Nurse and Princess Leia disguises. There were wigs and kinked-up shoes. More disturbing was the Snow White costume. Now I’m a Disney Girl, I love my princesses, but not in the bedroom, fellas. There’s something very impure about porking Snow White, though admittedly not as bad as the Seven Dwarfs I suppose. Which I think may have been a category in the DVD section. I’m not all that sure since I wasn’t brave enough to go beyond categories listed as “Face Sitting” and “Midget Grandmas.”

I then braved the Toy Area. I faced a floor-to-ceiling display of anal plugs, strap-ons, vibrators and something called Magic Eight Balls, which were two balls on a chain with packaging that guarantees pleasure to the G-Spot. I don’t know how that works. I don’t want to know how that works.

I wandered down an aisle that contained “Playful Anal Intruders (With Cage),” “Six Inch Floppy Balls,” and a mysterious black box simply titled “The Accommodator.” With a near reverent awe I studied an end cap filled with Delay Creams, XXXtra-large cock rings, and a package called “Long Dong Silver,” complete with a strap-on penis, eye patch and hook. When squeezed the penis would say, “Arr! Ahoy, Matey!”

Actually, I made that last part up. But it would be pretty f**king hilarious, if you ask me.

Eventually, I made my way out of the store and back to my car. I slid down in my seat and waited until the traffic cleared, then I quickly pulled out of the parking lot and back to being a Nice Girl.

The truth is, it’s all embarrassing. Going to the store, ordering online–no matter what, you risk being caught. And the truth is, we shouldn’t be embarrassed. Sex shops, strip clubs, porn mags, books and DVDs–they exist because there’s a demand for them. And Sweet Elderly Auntie in the essay I read is proof that it’s not just pervy truckers and priests who are purchasing this merchandise. Sex is a natural act. We shouldn’t be ashamed of our human desires, even if they do involve anal plugs and strap-ons.

We should be more ashamed to walk into a McDonald’s and order a Big Mac. And really, don’t knock a sex swing ’til you’ve tried it. Not that a Nice Girl would know anything about that.

The other day my brother and I were having a discussion about the guy who does the voiceovers for the VISA commericals. We agreed that he sounds incredibly condescending and this most likely carries over into his personal life. Can you imagine the pickup lines this guy uses? He probably picks the hottest woman in the bar, and has a drink sent over to her. She accepts the drink, and turns away from the bar to find out what the guy looks like. Some cocky-looking bastard starts making his way over to her, and she rolls her eyes and heaves a big sigh.

He sidles up next to her, his elbow leaning against the bar. “Hey pretty lady,” he says, taking care to use his deepest, manliest-sounding radio voice, “you are one lucky woman.” He puffs out his chest, takes a look around the room, and then moves in close to her ear. She gives him the shoulder in disgust. Undeterred, he leans in and says, “buying a drink for a pretty woman…$4.75. Going home with the hottest guy in the room? Priceless.”

Unfortunately, the woman will most likely recognize his voice because like most of us, she is getting ads thrown at her from every direction, and one can’t help but recognize a few here or there.

I, for one, hate radio commercials with a passion. I want to know who is tossing bucket loads of money at these ad executives, and how I can get in on the action. With every study of every demographic of a demographic that can be done, why is it that ad execs still don’t have a frickin’ clue as to how to represent an age group, or sex, or race as a whole? McDonalds, for example, decided in recent years to get away from the family oriented image and give their ads a more “urban” feel. To appeal to this “urban” demographic, they chose an African-American woman with an afro to nod her head along to the beat of rap music as she carries a bag of McDonalds down a busy city sidewalk. Apparently, to McDonalds, all African-Americans have ‘fros, listen to rap and live in heavily graffittied areas.

But I have to say, the most ludicrous ad campaign that I’ve seen McDonalds pull out of their ass is during the Olympics. Because all Olympians down a Big Mac before hitting the slopes or doing flips on the uneven bars.

On the radio this morning, I heard a commerical for a help-wanted agency. The ad was geared toward employers who may have a hard time finding office help. The scenario that was set up was a man who was tired of his receptionist not knowing how to use the intercom button on the phone. So the commerical consists of a woman screaming “Mr. D! A client is here to see you!”

First of all, I don’t know where the ad company did their research, because the last time I checked, the unemployment rate is terrifyingly high here in the United States, especially in Michigan. I don’t know why the ad company thought the right angle for their pitch would be to target employers who just can’t seem to find any help. My next issue with the commercial is that I didn’t realize that in all the demographic research that ad companies claim to painstakingly do, the number one complaint among employers was that their office help can’t figure out how to use the intercom. I don’t know why an employer would feel the need to hire and train new staff simply because he or she couldn’t take two minutes out of their time to direct their employee where the button labeled “intercom” is on the telephone.

And finally, who in god’s name thought it would be a great idea to create an ad of a woman screaming repeatedly into a telephone, and then air it during a morning show? I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m not fond of hearing a woman screaming in a high-pitched, nasally voice five minutes after I’ve woken up in the morning. I might as well just have my alarm set to Fran Drescher’s voice. “Waaaake up, sleepyhead!”

I could go on and on, but I’m in a hurry today so I’ll just end with the worst culprit, in my opinion: radio commericals that suddenly play the sound of a car horn honking. Like an auto repair shop commerical. As I’m driving to work in the morning, absorbed in my thoughts, it’s really jarring to suddenly hear a horn honking and then realize it’s on the radio. I’d be willing to bet that somewhere out there, someone has a gotten into an accident due to being startled by that damn commerical.

I’m sure someday in the near future I will be driving in my car and suddenly hear a McDonald’s commerical geared toward vegetarians or the starving children in Africa.

I love my new place. I really do. For the first time in my life, I can girly up my home to my own satisfaction. I have a bright, cheerful yellow living room with prints of Marilyn Monroe, Audrey Hepburn and Madonna adorning the walls. I can proudly display my Legally Blonde and Clueless DVDs. I have my bible (Bridget Jones’s Diary) propped up against a traditional bible in my bookcase.

The remote is absolutely mine. If I feel like plopping down on the couch to watch Lifetime’s Movie of the Week, A Man Never Tells–about a husband who is ashamed to admit his wife beats him, haha–I will get no argument from anyone.

There is no one to complain about my pink bathroom with the pink butterflies on the shower curtain. No one is going to get his grubby hands on my pretty, for-decoration-purposes-only hand towels. There are no concerns about someone missing the toilet while peeing, and the seat always remains down.

My bedroom is baby blue. There is no longer “my” side of the bed. It’s all my side of the bed. I can now sleep with each leg stretched across the bed, touching a corner. I tried this and I’m telling you, it’s not comfortable. It is reassuring that I tried, though. One must always try new experiences.

 I can fall asleep with the TV on if I want (and I do. What better way to fall asleep than listening to Conan O’Brien or Jon Stewart?) The closet is in exactly the order I want it. I can keep the blinds open from the moment I get up in the morning until right before I go to bed at night (my husband was a vampire and hated having the blinds open. He kept them closed all the time and it was always dark).

The kitchen is a pretty sage green and is generally immaculate, as it’s only used for the occasional microwaving or cooling of beverages in the fridge. I have a dishwasher, which I must say, is more reliable and efficient then my last one, who often left dishes stacked for days and then cheated on me (the bitterness will fade in time, no worries).

The office is my magnum opus of femininity. It’s lavendar, with soft blues, pinks and greens accenting the room. I have more Marilyn and Madonna prints in here. I have a loveseat with a comfy sage slipcover. I’m making lots of pillows to accent the colors in the room. It’s the girliest room I’ve ever decorated.

But, there are a few downfalls to this new, single life.

I’ve been working lots of hours lately. Actually, I’m worked 10 days straight without time off. In some respects, this is OK, because I’m saving to be a World Traveler. This also means that I’ve not had any real sleep in quite awhile, and I’m starting to burn out. It would be nice to sleep in a few minutes longer in the morning, to have someone say, “I’ll take the dogs out.” Especially when it’s raining outside.

It would be a nice break to have someone else feed and water the dogs and cat for once. It gets old to work until 6 or 7 PM, then drop mail off at the post office, then run to the grocery store, then go home and take the dogs for a walk, then tidy up, and find some free time for yourself. It’s fine most of the time, and my parents help out with the dogs, especially when I have to work through the lunch hour and can’t get home to let them out. But it would just be nice to have someone right there to share responsibility with you.

And laundry. God, do I miss my washer and dryer. Now, there is a single washer and dryer set that is shared by an entire building. When I come home at night, I just pray that the washer’s available. It’s such a pain in the ass. And, it costs money. Not only do you have to budget laundry money, you also have to make sure you have ten or twenty bucks worth of quarters around. That’s convenient.

Tonight, for example, I planned on going to bed early, maybe re-reading the sixth Harry Potter book in bed then falling asleep at a decent hour. I was just going to do a quick load of laundry, and then clean the apartment a bit.

I ended up working an hour later than the usual time. I stop at the gas station to fill up my tank, then run to the grocery store to pick up some detergent, then stop at the post office to drop off some mail. I get home, take the dogs out, then find that the washer is free (yes!). I put the laundry in the basket, and scoop up the change. I open the door, but my puppy Taz is quick and he runs out into the hallway. “Taz!” I loudly whisper, “get back inside!” Taz wags his tail, then starts barking cheerfully at me. A neighbor hears the noise and opens the door, glances down the hall at me.

“Sorry,” I apologized. “Taz! Back in NOW.” Taz ignores me.

I put down the laundry basket, and start after Taz. Taz thinks it’s a game and starts running in circles, then when he realizes I’m about to pick him up, he tries to escape. I chase him up and down the hall, and take him inside. “STAY,” I ordered. I pick up the laundry basket, and Taz starts to go out the door again. I balance the basket on my hip, use my foot to block Taz and and my free hand to grab his collar. “NO,” I say in my meanest voice (my brother will surely let all of you know that I’m not the meanest-sounding person and no one, not even my dogs, takes me seriously), “STAY.”

That’s when my indoor-bound cat, Penny, leaps over my leg out into the hallway. Again, I have to put down the laundry basket, fight off Taz ( who then starts barking wildly when I shut the door and leave him out of the fun), and chase Penny the Cat down the hallway. I finally get back inside of my apartment, virtually unscathed, give or take a few scratch marks on my arms and I manage (barely) to get out into the hall pet-free with laundry basket in hand.

I go downstairs and to my relief, the washer is still free. I put in my clothes and reach for the detergent, when I realize that I’d left the detergent back upstairs in the apartment with the Pets from Hell. It’s now decision time–I either put everything back in the laundry basket and haul it upstairs with me, risking my well-won spot with the washer, or I leave it there and hope that no one steals my underwear. That may sound weird to you, but back in my younger days, there was a problem in my apartment building with women’s panties being stolen out of the laundry room. My friend Sheba had hers stolen first. And then later I worked for an apartment community, and I’ve found it’s actually a pretty common occurance. Disturbing.

I decided to risk the panty-thieves and run upstairs. I went back up, fought off the pets, and came back down to find all of my unmentionables still intact. I add the detergent to the load, and put in the coins. Nothing happens. That’s when I realized that I’d mistakenly grabbed a nickel, not a quarter. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” I yelled to no one in particular, and then I kicked the wall, which hurt my foot, but at this point it’s better to kick the wall and break my foot then kick the only cleaning machine and break it.

I run back upstairs, grab the damn quarter, run back downstairs and start the load. Then I go back upstairs, and I start cleaning. I dusted. I vacuumed. I went back down and put the clothes in the dryer with little fanfare. I came back up and scrubbed the counters and mopped the floors. Then I decided to check my email.

I’ve learned to block out noise pretty well. After working in a restaurant for eight years, you have to do that in order to focus. I can block out screaming kids, loud music, and sometimes even the phone. But you know that moment when everything gets eerily quiet, and you get that chill running up your neck, and you know something is very, very wrong? That’s the feeling I just got. I walked out of my office, down the hallway, into my (formerly) just cleaned living room, and this is what I found:

The blurred images are my two dogs, running away from me. They tagged-teamed me. One of them got into an entire roll of paper towels. I’d left it on the end table when I was cleaning the windows. The other one got into a box of Kleenex. I think I should be nominated for sainthood solely for not tossing my puppies out the window at that moment. I’ll be St. Jennicki, Patron Saint for All Who Must Start Over Again On Their Own.

This is what I’ll look like:

I was desperate.

I needed music. I craved it. To be specific, I had to hear Garbage’s Version 2.0 album. As I’m living with my parents temporarily until my apartment is ready for move in, and my own CD collection/mp3 player were safely boxed away, I had little selection. My morning was timed out down to the second, and I had six minutes and fifteen seconds before I crossed over into Officially Late territory for showering.

I found my brother’s copy of the aforementioned Garbage CD. Unfortunately, he kept the jewel case but lost the CD. What a surprise. Anxiously I sorted through the rest of his CD collection. Very sad, indeed. I felt I had a better chance of finding something worth listening to in my parents’ music collection, which consist of a few CDs and several cassette tapes.

Alright. I can do retro. I hurried through the tapes. Empty boxes, everywhere! I looked at my cell phone in desperation. Two minutes left. I leaned into the far corner of the shelf, and pulled out a dusty cassette tape. My heart raced. I felt myself tense. Nervously, I looked behind my shoulder. Do I dare? Would anyone know?

Time was not on my side. I gripped the tape and ran back upstairs. In the bathroom, I pushed the open button on the tape deck, a small stereo I’d brought out of storage for use. I slid the tape inside, and hit rewind. I waited. And waited. And waited. Turned the showerhead on. I got out my towel. Remember folks: we used to wait to hear our music. Finally, I heard a hard “click.” I turned up the volume, pushed play, and stepped in the shower.

Oh oh oh oh oh, oh oh oh oh, oh oh oh oh oh, the right stuff.

Yes. You know what it is. I bet even as you’re reading this you’re starting to sing along.

You got the right stuff, baby  / (love the way you turn me on) / You got the right stuff, darlin’  / (you’re the reason why I sing this song)

This was the moment when I couldn’t take it anymore. Yes, it’s been a couple of decades. Yes, it’s beyond shameful. And yes, I remembered every single word. I broke out singing along in the shower.

All that I needed was you / in my life / you’re so right / and all that I wanted was you / you made all / (every one of my dreams come true)

The New Kids on the Block. *sigh*

They broke my boy band cherry when I was nine years old. Naughty boys. I remember desperately crushing on Joey (far left in picture). I too wanted to wear a hat with the top cut off so my hair showed through. I also wanted to rip my jeans at the knee and add a smiley face ala Debbie Gibson, but my mom wouldn’t allow it. So I satisfied myself with sleeping on an NKOTB pillow and watching my New Kids “Hangin’ Tough” VHS concert tape with my friends until it wore out.

I even talked my Dad into ordering another concert on PayPerView. I had a slumber party and watched it with my friends. We held our own pre-concert show in our basement, using hair brushes as microphones and arguing over who got to be Joey (totally tubular!) and who had to be Danny (he’s so hot–NOT! Ew, he has cooties. And he looks like a monkey).

When the concert finally aired, we were stunned to find that Joey’s falsetto had disappeared. They didn’t sound like their tape at all! They hit notes that made us cringe, and they were all sweaty and gross.

My dad pulled me aside to give me the facts of life talk. He explained that as boys get older, their voices change. And also, the New Kids lip synch.  Which is why their live concert differed from my well-worn “pre-recorded” concert tape.

I was devastated for a day or two, but quickly rebounded, as children tend to do. It became embarrassing to be an NKOTB fan. So, my tired cassette tape found its way into the storage room. I moved on to different boy bands–Boyz II Men, Backstreet Boys, N*Sync–with my partner in crime, Cici, but one can never forget her first true love. Deep in my heart, beyond the shame and the age, was a little girl wishing to sing along to “You Got It (The Right Stuff)” again. You know, the classics.

So somehow, someway, the tape found its way out to my car. And I happily sing along with it on my way to work in the morning (except, obviously, when I’m stopped at a red light. I turn the volume way down at that time. I’m not fully prepared to air my shame to the whole, immediate world yet).

In honor of John Wayne’s 101st birthday, I thought I’d take a moment to broach the topic of cowboys. I’m not all that fond of cowboys. This is not meant in any way to disrespect true cowboys; rather, it seems the type of person who likes to don cowboy hats and boots are, in my experience, morons.

          The American Cowboys: Gun-toting Simpletons.

Now, not all modern-day cowboys are wealthy, cartoonish lunkheads. You may be fortunate enough to come across a sensitive, hot, rugged cowboy who may or may not have homosexual tendencies. Consider yourself very lucky to find a man like this in the southwest.

My Heath Bar: The Exception to the Rule.

I do have a cowboy story I’d like to share. I’m sure The Duke would appreciate it.

When I was younger and slightly more dimwitted, I had a roommate to whom I’ll refer as “Ronny.”

Ronny liked to be naked. A lot. He also liked to have sex (almost as much as he enjoyed being naked).

As naive as I was back then, I did have enough wits about me to not become involved with Ronny, beyond sleeping in the bedroom next door to his room. It wasn’t that difficult for me. After witnessing Ronny and his best friend (I’ll call him “Billy Joe Bob”) cut holes in their old high school football pants, then walk around with their Uncle Woodys hanging out–well, that just killed any minute speck of attraction I may have been plundering deep in the ethos of my subconscious.

Until recently, Ronny had been sleeping with “Sheba,” the girl downstairs.

Sheba and I became friends under odd circumstances. My friend “Kelly” moved into the apartment beneath Ronny and me, and asked her friend Sheba to room with her. Despite having Kelly as a mutual friend, Sheba and I had never met.

The day Sheba moved in, she came upstairs to introduce herself. And to ask if she could watch our tv, since they hadn’t hooked theirs up yet. I looked up, up, up at this blonde-haired, blue-eyed Amazon woman (she’s a 6′2 Kirsten Dunst) and determined I could probably take her, if need be. You know, in case Kelly had really poor judgment in the friend department and I’d just allowed a crazy supermodel inside to watch Ricki Lake with me.

We settled onto the couch. About twenty minutes after the “go Ricki, go Ricki” anthem, she turned to me and asked if I could help her with something. Foolishly I first agreed, then asked what she needed.

“I just got my nipples pierced, and I need help putting the new rings in.”

I didn’t quite know what to say. She got up, took off her shirt and bra and walked back into my bedroom. “There’s better light in here,” she called to me.

For whatever reason, I got up and walked back there. She was standing there topless, holding two hoops in her hand. “I’m just scared to do it myself,” she explained. She cupped her boob with her left hand. “Could you please help?”
Writing this out now, it surely sounds like a seduction scene.You’re probably thinking, “Cue the chick-a-ba-wow porn music.” But that was not the vibe I got at all at the time, and I did go in and help her. And this is how Sheba and I became best friends. After something like that, you just kind of bond. We were pretty much inseparable from that day on.

Unfortunately, I told Ronny all about it when he got home later that night. At that point, we were still friends. Ronny couldn’t wait to meet Sheba. When I introduced them the next day, there was an instant attraction between them. Within days, they slept together.

Ronny, however, is a ‘mo (not a homosexual, but a male ho. I just liked to call him a mo because he’s homophobic) and he soon started bringing home different girls on nearly a daily basis. The best part of sex for Ronny was letting everyone know he was getting it. He’d bang his fist on our shared wall and yell, “Do you hear that? Do you hear me?”

Yes, we all could hear. Even Sheba, whose bedroom was right below Ronny’s.

Sheba eventually got sick of this, and told Ronny it was over between them. Ronny was completely unfazed.

One day, I was in the living room, studying for an exam. At this point, the relationship between my roommate and me was deteriorating. I couldn’t stand Ronny. I tried to stay away as much as possible. If I wasn’t at school or work, I would be downstairs at Sheba and Kelly’s place. Ronny had dropped out of school and was fired for smoking weed on the job, so he pretty much spent his time eating my groceries and finding new ways to expose himself around us.

But, on this particular day, I was stuck at the apartment until my shift started at work. Ronny walked into the living room wearing nothing but a cowboy hat and boots.

He kept wandering around, sticking his chest out, saying “Eh?” over and over again, to get my attention. When that didn’t work, he simply stood in the middle of the living room, free willy and all, grinning at me until I looked up.

“That’s a new look,” I muttered, and tried to go back to studying my humanities text.

“You think I should show Sheba?” Ronny asked proudly.

“I don’t think Sheba cares to see you,” I said pointedly, “especially since Herpes kept us all up late last night.” I liked to give his random one night stands names, since he didn’t bother to find out.

“I bet she does want to see me,” he exclaimed, “and I bet she’ll f**k me once she sees me.”

“Well,” I suggested, ‘Why don’t we make this interesting. I bet you five bucks you go downstairs and she won’t want to sleep with you.”

“You’re on!” he said eagerly. He grinned from ear to ear, and tipped his cowboy hat to me.

“I dare you to walk downstairs like that.” I grinned back at him.

“Okay!”

I stood up. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

Ronny started to look a little nervous. “Will you look outside to see if anyone’s in the hallway?”

“Sure,” I agreed. I stepped out and looked around. “No one’s there.”

“Ok,” he said nervously, “here I go.”

He turned, and strutted out the door, bare buttocks and all. I could hear his cowboy boots clacking down the steps.

I shut the door, and locked it. Then I called Sheba.

“Don’t answer the door,” I told her, “Ronny’s naked outside.”

Within seconds, I could hear furious knocking. “Sheba! Let me in!”

Sheba giggled over the phone. “I’m watching him through the peephole!”

I heard clack, clack, clack up the stairs. Then I saw the doorknow turn. Then the knocking started.

“Let me in! Jen, I’m locked out! Let me in!”

Sheba and I were hysterical now.

I opened the door. Ronny was standing there, covering himself with the cowboy hat.

“Well that was a quckie!” I said sweetly.

“F**king bitch!” he yelled, and ran into his room.

I never saw him naked again. Thank god.

I also never got my five bucks.

And folks, that is my cowboy story.

Thank you. Good night.