Well, once I was done, and the giggles subsided, stark terror shot through my hair-free body: Hubby Rick will absolutely kill me, I thought, and not just because I killed his shaver and clogged his trimmer! Wouldn’t you know it, the moment panic set in, Rick arrived! I hustled back into the bathroom and locked the door. Of course, Rick had to “take a leak,” as he put it, but I refused to open up.
Not even after he threatened to whiz in the kitchen sink. But what else could I do? I looked like the huge bald inmate from Stir Crazy! What was I thinking? Finally, after marshaling up every last inch of nerve, I told Rick that I did something pretty crazy, and I’d understand if he wouldn’t want to have anything to do with me ever again. I wrapped a towel around me and opened the door, bracing myself for the biggest fight in our marriage since I got fired from the liquor store job.
Rick’s eyes were the widest I had ever seen them. They were the size of dimes. “What happened to all your hair?” he asked. I told him, trying not to bawl. “Is all of it gone?” he asked. Yes, I said. “Everywhere?” he asked.
I dropped the towel.
Well, long story short, Rick didn’t leave me. Wanna know what happened? For the first time in eons, he spent the night with me. And it wasn’t no slumber party, Jeanketeers! Turns out that I, completely inadvertently, tapped into a little, previously unvoiced fantasy of Rick’s. Who knew the hubby had a thing for completely hairless women? Certainly not me, and I’m his wife! Kinky, huh? Yeah, I thought it was a little weird, too. But considering the cold panic I had felt before, I wasn’t about to question it. The next few days were pretty fun. But then I started to get these painful red shaving welts everywhere. Then things got incredibly itchy! I begged Rick not to touch me until my hair had grown back. (And he obliged me—even after my hair had returned!)
Going outside was a bit tricky, too. I made do with bandannas and baseball caps. But another unexpected thing happened: I actually got a lot of sympathy from strangers! At first I was puzzled, and it took me a while to make the connection: They thought I had cancer. And no, I didn’t bother to correct them! It was nice getting some positive attention for once.
So my story shows that sometimes a change in your appearance can bring good things! And like the best things in life, you can do it practically for free!
Hair by Jean!
When your pal Jean does have hair, she likes to keep it simple! Ever wonder how I achieve my enviably effortless coiffure? Wonder no more!
First, I shampoo and condition my hair every other day. Bubble-gum scented shampoo is still my fave!
Once rinsed and out of the shower, I towel off my hair. While still damp, I part my hair and comb out the snarls. This is the only tough part. Yee-owch!
If I’m pressed for time, I blow-dry my wet hair. But when I have time, I let it air dry, passing the time with a fine magazine and a hot chocolate.
Brush a few strokes, and that’s all you need to achieve the classic Jean-Do! Every few months, I take up my trusty scissors and trim the ends an inch or two. Or, if I’m feeling extravagant, I let the Supercuts ladies work their magic! What could be easier?
Alternate looks:
The “tuck behind the ear”
Ponytail!
Hubby Rick Is from Mars, Jean Is from Venus!
Golly, those differences between men and women truly are incredible, aren’t they? Sometimes you would think we’re two different species! Seriously, in a perfect world, wouldn’t human women be married to kitties? Kind of like on that old TV series, 7 Beauty and the Beast? (That show was soooo romantic by the way!) But think about it—women and kitties get along so well in general, and men and kitties stink up the bathroom and wreck household furniture at about the same rate anyhow, so why not? (Also, wouldn’t a human baby-kitten hybrid be unimaginably adorable? That would be, like, cuteness doubled, literally! So get on the ball there, scientists!)
Hubby Rick and I are proof positive of the old adage that opposites attract, because boy, are we ever opposites! (Actually, Rick may disagree that we “attract,” but there you go, another area where we’re opposite!)
Believe me, the differences between Hubby Rick and me could be their own book, and one almost as thick as the fall issue of Redbook! But I’ll name just a choice few here. For instance, I know how to say when; Rick doesn’t! If you asked Rick what “moderation” is, he’d probably tell you it’s a part in a car engine! (Does this honk a horn, ladies?) For example, when Rick and I order delivery pizza, we can’t just get one large pie—it has to be two. I’m content with four pieces, but Rick not only has to have the rest, but half of the second! Yep, we’re talking one whole pizza for him alone! And sometimes there isn’t even any of the second pie left over for the next morning’s breakfast!
Don’t even get me started about beer! Rick keeps a case of Coors on hand in the event of sudden dehydration, which apparently happens often to him, say every evening and all day Saturday and Sunday! Now, your pal Jean enjoys a nice, cool, refreshing alcoholic beverage once in a while—Brandy Alexanders, anyone?—but note the operative words “once in a while.” Alcohol is more magical if you only have it occasionally. But try telling that to Hubby Rick! When Rick is on one of his drunks, sometimes I don’t see him for the entire weekend, sometimes longer if he takes time off work. He’s either sleeping it off in the storage room of his favorite haunt, Tacky’s Tavern (he has an in with Tacky, Jr.), in the bed of his pickup truck (he’s had his wallet stolen twice and he still does it), or at the home of his buddy Craig (talk about another total piece of work!).
And Rick’s the type of guy who considers his drinking a badge of honor. In fact, he ridicules me for getting tipsy on a single Long Island Iced Tea; he calls me a lightweight. He even has the nerve to blame his absences on me! He claims he would stay home more if I drank too, but instead, according to him, I’m about as fun to party with as a “comatose nun.” Well, sorry to disappoint you, Rick, but getting drunk and having fun are not the same thing. And you know who agrees with me? No less an authority than Mothers Against Drunk Driving.
Here’s the worst part, though: Even though Rick puts away twice the amount of pizza I do, and is Anheuser-Busch’s biggest customer, for some reason he only outweighs me by ten pounds at the most. How in 8 the name of Jenny Craig does that happen? (Sheesh, life is sure unfair sometimes!)
When it comes to animals, our differences aren’t quite as stark. I love critters. Rick loves critters, too—dead ones! Question: Do other grown men like to shoot blackbirds with their dad’s old .45 service revolver? I thought guys got over that stuff when they graduated from high school—not Rick. If a critter in our state can be legally hunted, you can believe Rick is up at the crack of dawn on the first day of its hunting season. He keeps his rifle at Craig’s house; he started doing that after we got evicted from our previous apartment because he set it off while cleaning it and it shattered our glass porch door to thousands of pieces. (That wasn’t the first time we got evicted because of Rick’s hunting—we also got kicked out of Prairie View Residences because Rick would leave his kills in the basement, without bothering to field-dress them, and then, um, get drunk and forget about them. Ever gone downstairs to your apartment’s laundry room and find an extremely deceased doe lying across the top loaders? Our building manager did!)
Rick doesn’t limit his “love” for animals to hunting season, though. For a time, Rick fancied himself an animal control officer, and he bragged that he didn’t even have to leave his truck to be one! I’d get very upset with him, but he’d explain that raccoons and squirrels were pests, always getting into garbage and building nests in chimneys, so he was doing society a favor. One night, Rick and I were driving home from a wedding, and I saw a possum waddling across the lane. I covered my eyes, knowing what would happen next. Imagine my surprise when Rick actually drove around it! I commended him for turning a corner, but Rick told me the only reason why he didn’t hit that possum with his pickup truck is because he was tired of hosing off
the…aftermath…from his grille and underside of his engine. I should have known! Still, I suppose I should be happy he gave that possum a stay of execution.
All I can say is, thank goodness there’s no open season on kitties—my Priscilla and Garfield would be forced into witness protection! Predictably, Rick can’t stand kitties; he calls them the “fairies” of the animal world, and he’s not talking about Tinkerbell! I adore my cats, and they mean the world to me. I’m always showering tons of attention on them, petting them, taking their photos, putting little doll dresses on them, you name it. I even give them people food! After all, cat food can get boring, so why not feed them stuff like cheese and ice cream and weisswurst? They snap it up like there’s no tomorrow! Once I gave Garfield an entire roast beef and cheddar cheese sandwich for his birthday. He ate most of it, too, except for some of the bread, and the sun-dried tomatoes! (He threw up some of it later, but not all of it.)
So here’s what I don’t get. Clearly, to Rick’s Elmer Fudd, I’m Elly May Clampett. But even though Rick hates kitties, Priscilla and Garfield seem to love him more! It’s like the more he ignores them, or refuses to make eye contact with them, or shoves them with the toe of his boot when they’re in his way, the more they’re attracted to him. They always want to sit on his lap, or rub against him, purring like motorboats the entire time. It’s like I’m not even alive! They never purr when I stroke them. In fact, sometimes Priscilla swats me with her paw, hisses, and races under the bed. (No matter, as I find kitties’ diva-ish, take-no-prisoners attitude to be one of their most endearing traits!)
There’s other habits Rick and I don’t share, like gambling, watching soap operas, football, and bathing (I’ll let you decide who likes what!). But probably the biggest difference between us is our scores on the old Love-O-Meter. I’m sure you love-starved wifeys can relate to this one the most! I’m a woman, so I’m romantic by nature. Our home is chock full of stuffed animals, lacy throw pillows, silk flowers, and vases. I always make sure there’s clean, soft sheets on the bed, and floral air fresheners spewing their scented goodness from every electrical outlet. Granted, some of that is meant to distract from the litter-box smell. But I like to be surrounded by the things that remind me that life has its sunny side. And I’m a world-class cuddler, too. You guys out there who prefer your gals skinny are missing out on the sweet, fleshy warmth of a grade-A, plus-sized honey! Back when he was little, my cousin Mandy’s boy told me that when I wore sweats, I felt just like a giant teddy bear! He used to hug me all the time, and try to lay his head between my…well, of course I never let him get that far, but you can see where it was going. (Our family was pretty shocked when we found out he turned out the way he did. I mean, we figured because he liked, well, those pillowy parts of the female anatomy that give milk…)
Unfortunately, I’m a cuddler who lacks a cuddlee. Yep, Hubby Rick is the type who doesn’t like to be touched when he’s trying to sleep. He says because he works his fanny off all day, he’s entitled to some peaceful, undisturbed rest. Just my luck, huh? Now there’s a guy who could stand to plug himself into some high-voltage hug power! Sometimes I think that if I could get Hubby Rick to cuddle with me more often, he’d be far less of a grouch. When I protest, though, he offers nothing but excuses. “I’d be more in the mood if you didn’t have those creepy stuffed toys all over the place,” Rick will say. “It don’t turn me on to feel like I’m in a kid’s bedroom. That’s more Craig’s thing.” (Eeeek! T.M.I.! T.M.I.!)
* * *
Differences Between Men and Women!
Women talk in complete sentences; men only communicate in grunts!
A Woman’s favorite room is the kitchen; a man’s is the bathroom!
Women remember anniversaries; men only remember their own birthdays!
Men like beer; women would like beer if it contained less alcohol and more chocolate! (At least this woman Would!)
Prior to whoopee, Women love foreplay; men think “foreplay” is some kind of golf term!
Women love the movie Beaches, men only love movies of beaches that depict an Allied invasion or show topless Women!
Women agree to disagree; men disagree to disagree, because everyone should agree with them!
Once a month, women have their periods, and deal with it; if men bled down there, they’d panic and make a huge deal about it and probably call all!
Women love cats; men love dogs (though, ironically, they call women they think are ugly “dogs!” Which brings me to my next observation: Women are consistent, men are not!)
Men appreciate a home-cooked hot meal once in a while; women just assumed the men were going to bring pizza home again, and how is it all their fault?
Men don’t come home for hours and hours, sometimes even days, and don’t bother to call you to tell you if they’re okay; women call their men for every little reason, like even if there’s a squirrel at the bird feeder, because they care about their men and want to share every moment of their lives with them!
Women like to decorate their homes with things like fragrant potpourri and floral throw pillows; men will for no reason whatsoever suddenly shatter the potpourri bowl against the wall and rip apart the pillows with their teeth!
* * *
Oh, it’s not that Rick doesn’t get frisky once in a while. It’s just that, when he wants to make whoopee, it’s the only thing he wants to do! I ask you, truthfully, what is so romantic about sex? I mean, it can be soooo uncomfortable…the sweat, and the slap-slap-slap noise, the low center of gravity, where to put your leg…the smells…and Rick makes these sounds…sort of like a badger clearing its throat…I’ll mercifully spare you the rest!
So with Rick and me being practically from different planets, why, you may ask, do we stay together? Well, while I’m no mind reader, I think Rick sticks around because he’s really just a softie at heart. He knows that his Wifey Jean keeps the home fires burning and assures him that, no matter what, she’ll be there for him.
True story: Did you know Hubby Rick was the first-ever boy who kissed me? (Well, unless you count that boy Dave in tenth grade, who did it on a dare from his teammates on the tennis team. But he laid his palm over my mouth and pressed his lips against the back of his hand to make it look like he was kissing me. And then he and the others had the nerve to call me “Slutbag Jean” for the rest of the school year!)
I remember the day as clear as glass—we were sitting in these woods just outside town, a place where the kids from my high school drank beer and generally engaged in monkey business. It was funny because, though I did have a bit of a crush on Rick, I wasn’t thinking about kissing at all! As I recall, we were having a debate about the musical merits of one Rick Springfield, Dr. Noah Drake himself. Of course, as with every person of the masculine gender that he didn’t like, Rick was questioning the manhood of the good doctor. He was of the opinion that the lyric, instead of going “I wish that I had Jessie’s girl,” was really supposed to be “I wish that I was Jessie’s girl!” Rick was always saying stuff like that to press my buttons (what’s new?). So I said, wisecracker that I was in those days (what’s new?), “Geez, Rick, with all your talk about ‘gay’ this and ‘homo’ that, one would think you had some kind of fixation on the subject!” Well, did Rick’s face turn red! But do you know what he did next? Instead of saying something smart-alecky back, he took a quick look all around him, then, after realizing there was no one around to see, he pushed me down on my back, pinned my arms against the ground, and planted a huge wet one on my lips!
“A homo wouldn’t do that, would he?” he said.
For a few seconds I was speechless. “Okay, you proved your point,” I finally said. Then he kissed me again. I didn’t know whether to struggle or yell for help. It certainly wasn’t the loving, romantic first kiss I had always envisioned late at night in my bedroom. In fact, it was pretty sloppy—our family dog licked my nose with far more aplomb!
But then I remembered something my mother had told me just days be
fore as we were shopping for clothes at Sears: “Being fussy isn’t a right, Jean, it’s a privilege. And you ain’t earned it yet.” I guess it was her “nice” way of saying “Beggars can’t be choosers.” So what can I say? I surrendered. But I drew the line at second base. (That was for another time—the next day!)
Don’t you think that in these times of divorce and polygamy and non-commitment, it’s pretty special that a woman married, and is still married to, her first and only kisser? Well, it warms my heart, at least. Besides, look at the alternative. Being single? No thanks, bub! That’s just about as pathetic as you can get!
My Dream Wedding Dress!
Weddings—how romantic! (Le sigh!) For most of us ladies, it’s the one and only time we are allowed to feel like princesses, only to become queens mere minutes later! Even though I got hitched back when Spandex leggings were all the rage the first time (!), I never ended my love affair with weddings. I still fantasize about my ideal wedding, and hold out hope that Hubby Rick will someday renew his vows to me in a gorgeous setting.
I suppose my deep desire to get married again stems from the fact that our original wedding left much to be desired, to say the least. It was thrown together quick as a wink, sorry to say. Because our parents were all convinced that Rick would bolt to the state line in that Chevy Luv of his (which is where my mom and his dad found us making the whoopee that hastened the wedding in the first place), they made sure that we got hitched toot sweet! Had they actually let us take the time to plan a lovely affair, I probably wouldn’t be renewing my Brides subscription for the nineteenth year in a row!
The Onion Presents a Book of Jean's Own! Page 6