Roseannearchy

by Roseanne Barr

  Do you see what I mean? These are the things that are in my head. These are the things I ask you to examine closely.

  So if you are going through “the change of life,” remember that it’s really the second female metamorphosis. The first one was at about age twelve, right? Do you remember the horror of going through that one? It was like a horror movie for me. I was an outcast. People shunned me. And then, at the prom, all those buckets of blood—it was horrible. Wait a minute. That wasn’t me. That was Carrie. Sometimes I get confused. It was still pretty bad, though.

  In middle school the school nurse took all the girls to the auditorium, taped up the windows so the boys couldn’t see in, and then the horror movie of all horror movies began: “Girls, today we will be talking about changes in your bodies. Something that happens to all girls—something beyond your control. BWAH-HAHHAH! Watch as the body you trusted begins the transformation. Watch as innocent young girls are turned into raving shrews! Coming to a theater near you, every twenty-eight days.”

  As if it wasn’t bad enough that I was fat and Jewish in Utah, now I had monthly hemorrhaging to deal with. And to add insult to injury, I still had to go to gym class. I think gym should be illegal. It is child abuse of the worst order, waged by awful perverts called gym teachers—mine was named Ms. MacNeeley. She was obsessed with making us shower. I did not want to shower with other people. I did not want to look at other people’s bodies, or have them look at mine. The terror of that prospect made me go into the obsessive-compulsive suffering mode that fat girls do so well.

  I had a lot of problems with body image, besides the fact that I was fat. I have no butt, and that takes a toll on a girl because everywhere you look people have butts, and you’re like, what’s wrong with me? I have no butt at all; it’s just like this hump with a crack in it—a crack in my back and a source of embarrassment.

  I wore my gym uniform under my clothes so I wouldn’t have to get naked in front of all these naked, thin, perfect, Mormon blond girls. The only way to get out of showering at the end of class was to say you were menstruating. Then you got to keep your shorts on, cover yourself with a towel, and dab under your arms instead of having to shower. Eventually, Ms. MacNeeley, that sadistic bitch, called me into her office and said, “Roseanne, you need to bring a note from your doctor—you’ve been menstruating for fifty-eight days.” I begged my mom to intervene, but she said, “Stop being such a baby—get into that shower with all the other girls!”

  I remember that day like it was yesterday. Disrobing in front of all those people and marching into the shower, no longer having any control of my body or my life, I could hear all the girls behind me: “Look at her, she has no butt at all—just a crack in her back is what it’s like!”

  This single event caused me to hate my school, my mom, society, myself, and all those girls who were thinner, lighter, fatter, and darker than I, plus the Serbs, Croatians, Basques, gentiles, Jews, French, Germans, Russians, Asians, Africans, Pygmies, American Indians, Europeans, Semites, Mexicans, Spanish, Italians, Dutch, Arabs, Siberians, those from warmer southern climes, inhabitants of all seven continents, nonbelievers, true believers, and anyone athletically inclined—as a result of that OLD GYM HAG, may she rot in GYM HELL! Gym class made me a hater, as I am convinced it does to everyone who is forced to endure it.

  Vegetarians say that eating meat makes people mean and hateful, and maybe there is some truth to that. I am close to vegetarian now because my daughter is, and she always has to ruin everything by reminding me that you are eating babies when you eat veal and how the poor calf has been kept penned up, fed butter, and not been allowed to move around at all for a whole year. Christ, I wish I could become veal myself! The butter and not-moving part would be like heaven to me. If someone kills me and eats me after that, I probably wouldn’t even mind.

  I wouldn’t really mind being a goose, either. The same vegetarian daughter tried to dissuade me from eating pâté by telling me how they nail the goose’s feet to the floor and pour tons of vodka down it’s throat until its liver swells up. Damn, that doesn’t sound half-bad of a lifestyle to me, either.

  Actually, I have been laying off eating dead animals for a while now, and I feel like I’ve at least taken a step back from that whole “Cowshwitz” cruelty machine. It’s probably the only real sin—cruelty, I mean. Like another great prophet and avatar of my age, Elvis, put it brilliantly: “Don’t Be Cruel.” Those are words to live by. I’m trying, but, oh man, sometimes the whole enchilada gets on my big nerve. Did I say enchilada? I’m outta here. See you in the next chapter!

  Recipe for Change

  Do something unexpected and new.

  Stop doing something old and rehearsed at the same time.

  repeat!

  Chapter 12

  S-E-X, Do We HAVE to Talk About It?

  I’m going to make a lot of people mad with this chapter. I’m certain of it. The bitchy little troll in my head who likes to shock the prim-and-proper witch-burner wannabes among us is wringing her chubby hands and drooling in anticipation. There’s nothing she loves more than watching people squirm. And there’s no better way than talking about S-E-X.

  We really labor under some myths about sex and we need to get over it. That’s why I’ve always liked Woody Allen’s answer to the question: Is sex dirty? I don’t know if Woody (get your mind out of the gutter) was the first to say it, but his answer was: “It is if you do it right.” I’ve always thought that just about the lamest thing you can call sexual activity is “making love.” Give me a break. Two horny, slobbering, thrashing humans rolling around on top of each other are not “making love.”

  There are more euphemisms for sex than there are Eskimo words for snow, and every single one of them is more honest and descriptive than that treacly, telltale expression of repression. Some of you may squirm a little when the less poetic souls among us call it “slamming the ham,” “packin’ pork,” “harpoonin’ the poon,” “riding the baloney pony,” or just plain old “screwing.” The truth hurts, especially people who seem to be allergic to it. But trust me. The sooner you stop making love and start fucking, the better your sex life will be.

  Now and then, while surfing around on the tube, I’ve paused to watch some lily white TV evangelist, who looks like either a closet case or a hypocrite who sneaks off to the Dominican Republic with somebody else’s Viagra prescription to get with slave-wage prostitutes—oh, wait, no, that’s Rush Limbaugh. Anyway, one of these inbred hillbilly Talibangelists is always happy to proselytize about sexual “union” or “congress” or something else that sounds suitably not like what sex really is.

  You know the spiel: “Sexual union is a sacred sacrament that God has given to those who are united in the bond of holy matrimony by which they can express their sanctified love for each other and by which they may be blessed with children.” That’s what they preach just before they get caught with their pants down in a public bathroom and right after they publicly repent and start slinging the “sacred sexual sacrament of marriage” shit again. Sacred sacrament, huh? Really? Well, what is it that the rest of us have been doing this whole time? You know, those of us who weren’t virgins when we got married (if we got married) and who have actually had sex with more than one person? I guess that’s a sin, because it sure as hell isn’t anything like the bleached-out, sanctified, Sunday school stuff that Right Reverend Billy Bob is prissily preaching.

  Lest you think that I’m going to piss off only the repressed people with my views on sex, I should mention that I’m also turned off and grossed out by people at the other end of the spectrum: people who constantly stick sex right in our faces, people who never tire of using cornball innuendo or other lame attempts to convince us that they’re major studs or studettes just waiting to happen. Please! Strut your skanky stuff somewhere else—somewhere I’m not!

  I’m not even going to go into this “cougar” bullshit; I’m going to be eating later. As much as I should be grateful for an app
etite suppressant, I can’t hack it in the form of a slutty-looking, liver-spotted granny with rodeo clown makeup, an Ace bandage bulge under the knee of her spandex pants, and cleavage that looks like it’s been prepped for bypass surgery.

  And don’t even get me started on the men—crispy old geezers with their belts cinched just under their nipples, steel-wool hair-balls the size of baby squirrels growing out of their ears, and hair-pieces from the irregulars bin at Toupees-R-Us, bragging about all the “banging” they’re doing again. Wow, Dead Man Humping, what a turn-on—NOT! It is men like this who make you long for kinder, gentler times, when Grandpa might suffer the hardening of the wrong artery every Memorial Day or so, drag himself somewhere in the vicinity of napping Grandma, hump on her arthritic hip for a moment or two, and then say, “Well, it ain’t what it used to be, but you get the idea.”

  All this emphasis on miracle drugs from hell is fueling this repulsive wave of geriatric rutting. And for some reason, those unavoidable, satanic boner pill ads have a way of coming on when you’re watching TV with family or somebody else you really don’t want to be sitting around with in front of a boner pill ad. Always—without fail. You know the ones I’m talking about—those smarmy, airbrushed scenarios that discreetly hint at sex, and have clearly been slapped together by some frustrated fruitcake producer who wishes he were producing smarmy, airbrushed movies instead.

  I have a couple of problems with these ads. Número uno: The people are too old to be having sex. Now, before you get your Depends in a twist, hear me out. I can’t imagine that the irresistible desire or even feasible opportunity for geriatric intercourse arises often enough to merit all of these commercials. But for the sake of argument, let’s say that you’re old and you just have to have sex. You know, like if it’s your insignificant other’s birthday and you lost the coin toss, or it’s Cinco de Mayo and you forgot how much of a wallop a couple of tequila sunrises can pack, and your old man (who’s had three) is suddenly prying you out of your Spanx, even though your arms are too numb from the elbows down to give you enough strength to push him away. I’m sure you’ve experienced something like this, right? It can happen to senior citizens—although just saying the words “senior citizen” should be enough to dampen what should already be pretty soggy ardor by now. But if you find yourself still doing it, somehow, for God’s sake, don’t talk about it or even think about bringing it up. The mere thought of old people humping makes me vomit in my mouth a little bit. Where’s my wine?

  And the people in those ads—I mean, I know they have bills to pay and acting work is scarce and all of the rest, but let them hold on to their dignity—at least until the incontinence sets in. The deep, loving, slightly suggestive looks those poor old bastards are giving each other not only induce nausea, they’re probably part of the reason that antidepressant sales are up; they’re all made by the same companies, you know.

  And last but not least: Get rid of the side-by-side matching bathtubs in these commercials. What in the hell is that twisted “Freud goes to Madison Avenue” symbolism all about? Precoital baths in the wilderness—this is what we have to look forward to? Leave it to some marketing major from the University of Bullshit to drag a couple of bathtubs to the beach or to a lake in the mountains to induce Baby Boomer boinking. Just imagining two blissed-out octogenarians soaking their wrinkled flesh in a tub of soapy water makes me pray for the nurse to come sponge them down quick before they shrivel into walnuts and drown.

  Despite my hatred of the pill-pushing pimps behind these sadvertisements, I sort of like that Enzyte Bob guy who does those male enhancement ads. He’s kind of cute with that stupid, crazed grin and his infectious enthusiasm for life inside a TV commercial. They never come right out and define male enhancement in clinical terms exactly, which is sensitive and tasteful of them—not to mention good business sense, by conveniently allowing them to avoid fraud charges. But in Bob’s world, where his golf putter is always pointing skyward, and the line on his graph at the staff meeting just keeps climbing up, up, and up, it’s hard to miss the thrust of Bob’s message. (Sorry, they had a sale down at Trite Sexual Innuendo Mart.)

  I kid about my platonic fondness for Bob (he actually looks a little more Gay Mormon than I prefer); truthfully, I watch for the women. They don’t just look admiringly and hopefully at Bob, as if he were the proverbial warden in a women’s prison with his hand full of pardons. No, there’s also the glazed, joyous, grateful gaze that comes from knowing that he’s always generously ready, willing, and able to summon up a hefty, can-do, top-shelf erection that won’t quit till they say “Uncle!” Ah, we’ve come such a long way since the bra-burning, consciousness-raising days of my youth, when we had to make do with Mr. Whipple. (Excuse me while I grab a tissue and try not to weep, deeply and openly.)

  Seriously, sex is weird. Watching my youngest son turn fourteen, shed some baby fat, get a girlfriend, and begin snickering over objects that are longer than they are wide or words like wiener and beaver is weird, too. But seeing him turning into a young man and a sexual being is—YECCHHH!—really a gross-out! OMG, did I just say that? What I meant to say was that it’s a real opportunity for growth on both of our parts, as well as a chance for me to reflect on the role that healthy human sexuality has played in my life, and how I can help encourage and foster that attitude in my children and grandchildren. Oh, who am I shitting? Sex is weird and there’s probably a good reason why we, and our kids, cringe when we’re forced to confront it in each other’s company. Come on, we just do!

  And now that my son is becoming a full-on teenager, it’s a little extra weird. I want him to enjoy life in every aspect, but I’m his mother and I want to protect him, too. That sounds a little too pat, now that I just said it. You always hear dads talk about it in those terms, mostly when their daughters are involved. But I have mixed feelings for my kid; there’s some dread—actually a lot of dread—and a touch of horror, too.

  There are all kinds of feelings and emotions and neuroses and murky depths to puberty. I mean, hard as I’ve tried to block it out, I still remember being fourteen. I remember the planning and the manipulation and the plethora of ways devised to “trap” a man that I, and all my young teenage girlfriends, spent hours and hours discussing.

  When I look back over my life, particularly my life as a female, wow, have we all gone through some changes. The difference between sexual attitudes from my mom’s day and mine were huge. Back then, men really did expect to marry a virgin (poor bastards—and I say that with empathy for the men, too). A lot of weight was given to a girl’s reputation, which meant one thing: her sexual history as recorded and blabbed by the neighbors. Before I start to sound like I’m calling all that “morality” hopelessly quaint and old-fashioned, let’s remember that those were the days before the Pill. They knew what they were talking about when they warned that “A few moments of pleasure could turn into a lifetime of responsibility.”

  My mom was a very pretty girl and men have always been attracted to her. But my dad was the love of her life. They married young, and my mom says that there’s satisfaction in not having been someone who slept around and took sex lightly. I wouldn’t know about that. I grew up in the ’60s and ’70s, and we know what that time was like. I have to say that the hippies were right about some things. No disrespect to the hundreds of generations that came before the Pill, but our ideas about sex and morality really needed a little loosening up—and I was just the girl to do some loosening. I sure as hell wasn’t alone, though let’s just say I was a product of my times and then some.

  With all the talk about the Sexual Revolution in the ’60s and ’70s, there was something about it that was a lot less tawdry and disrespectful to women than the times we’ve been living through in the last few years. It’s not so much about freedom nowadays as it is pride in sluttery (I think I just made up that word). It’s like slutwear is America’s burka. I mean, the day after a raunchy sex tape shows up on the Internet, the leading lady makes it a care
er move, issuing a public statement about how it was meant to be a private memento of the passion that she and the guy she’s now suing shared during the night they hung out together. Then she’s off to the next meaningless appearance, or rehab, or wherever she’s going.

  But what really gets me is the way so many girls seem to be content to just be meat, to be portrayed as meat, treated like meat, and for me that’s a turnoff. We should be treated as sex goddesses if we’re bestowing our gifts on lucky men, not as grateful playthings for “players” who are up the street doing it to our sisters the next day, or the next hour, for that matter. This new devalued-and-fine-with-it approach may seem cool, or stylish, or modern, or whatever for a while, but time passes and there’s not much future in just being a party girl.

  More than ever, we are awash in commercialized, trashy, irresponsible sex that doesn’t seem all that good-natured and fun for everyone involved. And somehow we’re predisposed to think that anybody who has a lot less sex than us is a repressed prude, and anybody who has a lot more is a big ho-bag. Fair enough? But the fact remains that sexual energy is the bottom line of biology in that it keeps the race replenishing itself (too much, if you ask me). That’s not going away.

  I spent some serious time at the mercy of my hormones—and other people’s, I guess. I am not a prude or anything. In fact, I have charmed more than a few snakes in my day, and done most everything there is to do except for getting paid to strip. I never publicly removed my clothing completely ever, since I was usually pretty fat, and the few times I got thin, I got saggy, and therefore had more of what needed to be left to the male imagination than most other gals. Keeping the male imagination stimulated is quite a task for a fat girl. But trust me, it can be done, and to your delight, it can be pretty wild once you get it revved up and going. Most of the time, though, keeping the male imagination actively engaged after a brief soiree or two, before the terrible boredom comes home, like a cock, to roost, is nearly impossible, as most guys have very limited imaginations when all is said and done.