Yeah, I Said It

by Wanda Sykes

  Being a mother is harder than being a surgeon. At least you get schooling and training first before they let you start cutting people open. Also you can quit being a surgeon when you’re ready. Patients aren’t going to keep following you around with a snotty nose: “Doc, Doc, Doc.”

  That woman in Texas homeschooled her children, which makes her look like a wonderful, giving mother. However, the reality is that she was trapped with them all day. You have to have the patience of Job to be a mom. Kids will make you snap! I know some of y’all are saying, “No, no. It wasn’t because of the kids. That woman had emotional problems. She was sick.” Uh-huh. Well, she didn’t kill nobody before she had those kids. After childbirth she turned into a homicidal maniac.

  I know having kids can make you snap because I know I got on my mother’s last nerve. Thank God she didn’t do anything crazy. Instead of hurting me, she would just play dead. I had this gift of gab at birth. The doctor smacked me in the mouth. So when my mother couldn’t take it anymore, she would play dead to shut me up. Hey, I need a live audience.

  Being a mom has to be the hardest job in the world. We’re used to men running off being lousy or absent fathers, but a woman who leaves her kids is considered a monster. Have you ever noticed that when a man says, “Having kids is great,” nine times outta ten, he says it when he’s not at home with his kids? His kids are home with the mother, driving her nuts, so I guess it is “great” for his ass.

  I was with a group of guys at a club on a late Saturday night. One of them was a soon-to-be father and the other dads were telling him how he’s going to love fatherhood. “Being a father is the best thing.” I’m thinking, Well, I guess it is. You’re here. You’re going on with your life, sipping on beer and eating chicken wings while your wife is at home trying to figure out which child to throw out the window first. The next time I hear a man say some bullshit like that I would love for his baby’s mama to magically appear and just slap the shit out of him, then leave the kids with him and disappear. Enjoy!

  Adoption

  People always ask, “Well, don’t you really regret not having kids?” And I go, “Not really.” Then if they keep asking, I always say, “Well, you know, maybe one day I’ll adopt.” But I don’t mean that. I don’t. It’s just something I say to make me sound like a nicer person, that’s all. I don’t mean that bullshit. Don’t I sound sweet when I say that?

  I know I shouldn’t adopt. I’m the type of person who will buy a pair of shoes, wear them for a month, and find out that they don’t fit right. They rub against my anklebone. It’s irritating, so I take them back to the store. Well, I don’t see why I would change my approach when it comes to any other purchase. I don’t want to get a kid; then after two years I’m standing in front of the orphanage, going, “Sorry, lil’ fella, it’s not your fault. It’s me. I have sensitive ankles. I need to see other kids.” That would send me straight to hell. It would be nice to help some poor unfortunate kid, but I’m trying to save my soul.

  It’s hard for white couples to adopt white babies. The supply is low. That’s why you see white couples with Chinese or biracial babies. Some black groups are putting up a fight to make it harder for white couples to adopt black babies. Me, I don’t care. I’m not going to do it, so if there’s a nice white couple out there who wants to give a black kid a good home, I wish them all the best.

  However, I’m going to be a little suspect if these white folks start adopting the strongest and fastest kids. I don’t want to see them down at the orphanage with a stopwatch holding trials, like it’s the NFL draft. “Honey, let’s get that one, look at his time.” They get the kid home, he starts playing on the computer, white dad is like, “Leave that alone, son, let’s go work on your crossover dribble.” This is the kinda shit we gotta stay on top of. Twenty years from now I don’t want to be at the Lakers game and the starting forward is Kwame Silverstein.

  Elizabeth Smart

  They found Elizabeth Smart. That was a beautiful and amazing story. My heart goes out to the family. That’s a strong family. They never gave up hope. They waited nine months and stuck in there. Maybe that’s why I don’t have kids, because after three months they would’ve called me and said:

  Police: Ms. Sykes, we found your daughter.

  Me: My who?

  Police: Your daughter. We actually found her two weeks ago, but it took us a while to track you down.

  Me: Yeah, I moved.

  She would’ve walked into her room—or my new billiard lounge—and I’d explain, “Well, you know how playing pool calms Mama down, so rack ’em up and we’ll catch up on old times.”

  Elizabeth said she was surprised that while she was gone her brother got straight As in school. I thought that was kinda messed up, too. She was like, “So you were just able to hit the books, huh? Nothing on your mind? Nothing bothering you? You were just able to focus and concentrate on your studies? I guess the lighting was better in my room.”

  I was hoping they would go quietly back to having a normal life. Then all the TV interviews and magazine stories started rolling out. What kind of parents get rich off of their kid’s nightmare? It’s a different type of child abuse. Can you see them in a network studio office: “We think the country should know all the terrible things that happened to our daughter. America has a right to know the truth.” “Okay, just sign right here. Here’s your check.” We tell our kids, if something happens to you that doesn’t feel right, go tell an adult that you trust. I bet her brother and sister are like, “Shit, if something happens to me, I’m gonna keep this terrible-ass secret to myself.”

  What happened to exploiting our kids through pageants? I’d rather you paint my face and curl my hair than give the world a detailed description of my rape.

  Presidential Bushes

  The Bush twins caught hell when their dad became president. America thought they had some wild girls in the White House. Jenna and Barbara. They got caught drinking under-age, so what? That must suck being the president’s kid. You’ve got Secret Service following you around, people don’t like you because they are pissed at your father’s policies, and you’ve got the Secret Service up your ass. If you’re a teenager, the last thing you want is old, stiff men in dark suits following you around. That’s how the Bush girl kept getting busted. She would go out to the bar and try to buy alcohol with a fake ID. Now teenagers try to get served all the time; this is not outrageous behavior for a nineteen-year-old. However, it’s pretty difficult to pull it off when you have old, stiff men in dark suits with earpieces standing behind you while you’re talking to the bartender. What did she say?

  Daughter: Can I get a fuzzy navel?

  Bartender: Aren’t you the president’s daughter?

  Daughter: No, I’m Lil’ Kim. These guys are my bodyguards.

  That’s not too bright. She must take after her daddy.

  It must really suck. Your life gets screwed up because your dad wants to be president so he can screw everybody else’s life up. It’s like being a rock star but not being able to do any of the fun, crazy rock star shit. I bet the Olsen twins have more fun than the Bush twins.

  They are in college, so you know all of the college guys are trying to get with them. Come on, that’s a prize. Bagging one of the twins will get you in the fraternity. Then again, the way their daddy went after Saddam, it could get your campus bombed, too. No worries, he’ll send Haliburton in to rebuild. You know those college guys would love to run back to the dorm: “Hey, man, guess who just blew me? The president’s daughter. My dick is presidential. You should salute my dick.” Now we know this scenario won’t happen, because I’m sure it’s hard to keep an erection when you have old, stiff guys in dark suits wearing earpieces and packing guns standing behind the girl who’s blowing you.

  America didn’t have to worry about these types of shenanigans when Chelsea was the first daughter. All that mess she went through, I’m sure sex was not on her agenda. Besides, Chelsea probably got sick and tired of her girl
friends running up to her: “Girl, guess who I just blew? Your daddy. Your daddy’s crazy.”

  Chelsea had it rough. She would probably call up her little friends: “Debbie, would you like to come over for a slumber party?”

  “Is your daddy gonna be home? Your daddy is fun. I always have a good time when your daddy is around.”

  Chelsea is one strong young lady. I have much respect for her. No child at any age wants to even think about her parents having sex. That’s one of the big fears, to walk in on your parents doing it doggy style. AHHHH!!! That will scar you for life. I would try to find some new eyes.

  Chelsea had to deal with the entire world knowing that her father had his dick in some strange girl’s mouth. That’s fucked-up. You know she was angry with Bill. She probably still is; I would be. And you know any guy she is with can forget about getting a blow job. That’s not going to happen, chief. I would have a tattoo right below my belly button that said NO DICKS ALLOWED ABOVE THIS LINE! I would have a sign right over my headboard that said IF YOU CAN READ THIS SIGN, THEN YOUR PENIS IS TOO CLOSE TO MY MOUTH. I bet if a guy tried to put his penis anywhere near her mouth she’d grab it and twist it up like a balloon animal. It’s a penis, now it’s an elephant.

  Part Nine

  Women

  Women are so analytical. All we do is think. Think, think, think. Think all the time. Right? Can’t stop thinking. Ladies, have you ever remembered a time when you had a moment of silence in your head? No. Of course you don’t, and if you did, you’re dead. It doesn’t happen, does it? No. Always thinking. Sometimes you can’t even sleep, because you won’t shut the hell up.

  You’re in the bed, and your mind is just racing about nothing. Just thinking, Mmmm, I need to talk to her tomorrow, because I didn’t like the way she spoke to me today. And I’m not gonna have this uncomfortable thing going on between us. Did I lock the door? I should have bought those shoes. Where’s my high school yearbook? Oooh, what am I gonna have for lunch tomorrow? Mmm, I don’t know. Why am I thinking about lunch? I need to have a good breakfast. That’s what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna start every morning with a good breakfast. Maybe I’ll start that low-carb diet. That seems to be working for a lot of people. What was my third-grade English teacher’s name? What was her name? Miss Jones? Miss Jenkins? I should get Tivo. I could tape Oprah every day. I should get a tattoo. I wonder how many frequent flyer miles I have. I haven’t had a tuna fish sandwich in years. I should paint the bathroom. When is Anita Baker gonna put out a new record? Wooo, it’s late! I need to be asleep. What the hell am I doin’ up? I don’t know. Let me think about it.

  That’s why I envy men. Man, I wish I could think like a guy. Because guys, they don’t spend all that time thinking. Men, their process is so different. They think about it, thought about it, moving on. That’s it. That’s why they enjoy sports. Because you ain’t gotta think about it. It’s cut and dry. You know, either you got the basket or you didn’t. Either you made the touchdown or you didn’t.

  If there’s any question about it, there’s a referee right there to sort it all out for them.

  Ref: After further review, play stands as called, touchdown. Stop thinking.

  Man: Okay, thanks, man. Thank you. Woo. I ain’t gotta do all of that thinking.

  But women, we think all the time. Sometimes we forget and think that men think as much as we do. Guys, have you ever been quiet for a minute around your girl? What’s the first thing we ask? “What are you thinking?” And guys always reply with the same thing, “Nothing.” Ladies, believe them! They can actually do that. Leave the man alone. If you keep bugging him, he’s gonna be thinking, Will you shut the fuck up? That’s what I was thinking.

  That’s a Dumb Idea…

  Period!

  I don’t do period jokes, but my friend Alyson brought something to my attention that just put me over the edge. Also I need to turn in seventy thousand words for this book. Like I said, I don’t do period jokes, but something needs to be said about how these companies treat women like we’re mindless.

  I told my good friend Alyson, a talented writer, that she could use this space in my book to get the following off of her chest, as long as she could do it in a thousand words. Ladies and Gentlemen: Please welcome to my book, the very funny and talented, Alyson Fouse.

  Thanks, Wanda. Last month when I was having a bad three to five days, I noticed that Kotex was printing little helpful tips on the back of their maxipads. “Tips for Life” is what they call them. I call them a dumb idea. It’s a sanitary napkin, not a fortune cookie. Besides, the time you’re most likely to see these “tips” is not really when you’re open for suggestions.

  Excuse me, Alyson, for interrupting, but you know how I loathe period-related material, so could you not say “sanitary napkin”? Yuck.

  Well, Wanda, what the fuck else would you like for me to call it, a bloody wad of cotton?

  Never mind.

  Let me set up the scenario. Ladies, say you’re stuck in a long and tedious staff meeting where no one listens to your ideas because you’re a woman, and the only doughnut left is that ashy chocolate cake one with the dried-up coconut sprinkles. Who are we fooling? You know you’re going to eat it anyway, because you were running late for work on account of the Motrin you took the night before for your cramps knocked you out like you were Mike Tyson’s sparring partner, or ex-wife. It’s possible the label on the bottle was right, you shouldn’t have taken two pills with alcohol, but is wine really considered alcohol?

  Not in my book.

  Wanda…

  I’m sorry, continue.

  And since you already had a couple of glasses, you might as well finish off the whole bottle. Right? Or is that just me? Anyway, your long-winded, balding boss with more hair coming out of his nose than the top of his head is finally wrapping up his report and everybody gets up to leave. Everybody but you, that is, because you have to be the last one out of your chair just in case you left enough DNA on it for somebody to mistake it for a crime scene.

  So you smile politely, and shuffle your papers. Then tell that girlfriend who takes every break, lunch, and walk out to the parking lot after work to talk about other coworkers and their kids, that you’ll catch up, and she doesn’t get it. But other people (mostly men) are still in the room so you can’t tell her that you might be sitting on possible evidence that will confirm their suspicions that you really are a woman. Instead you try to give her the eye and maybe she’ll receive the message telepathically. But she’s not Jean Grey from the X-Men. She can’t read your fucking mind. She just thinks you have an attitude and leaves. Now you’ve got to buy her lunch and explain over fajitas that you weren’t mad at her, but you were mad at your life-giving womb that you wish would just fall out already.

  Uh, Alyson—

  Wanda, would you shut the fuck up?

  Jeez…okay…somebody’s on the rag.

  Nevertheless, you’re finally alone and the only thing left in your seat are crumbs from the doughnut that you swear you’ll spend a full forty-five minutes on the treadmill for, but know damn well you won’t. Is it really a lie if you only tell it to yourself? Only if God hears you. And He’s not listening anyway, because you cursed Him out last night for those cramps. Which are starting to kick back in to remind you that this shit was aptly coined when they referred to it as a fucking curse. Which is what you do all the way to the ladies’ room, because for some reason everybody is in your gotdamn way. Don’t these people have shit to do? Luckily, you finally make it and get everything situated. I won’t go into details about what goes where, but ladies, after the morning you’ve been through, the last thing you want to do is read the back of your pad. Especially when it’s something dumb, like, “Drinking eight glasses of water a day will help you to feel fresh.” Or “Avoiding caffeine may help reduce cramps and headaches.” Even better, “Staying active during your period can help relieve cramps.” Fuck you, Kotex. Why don’t you give us some “tips” we can really use, like, “
How to dispose of your husband’s body.” Or “What to put in your kids’ cereal to make them take a seventy-two-hour nap.” And what we all want to know is, “Why didn’t they mention any of this shit in Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret?” Better yet, “Will there be a menopause edition entitled Lord, Jesus! Put Down the Gun, Maggie?” There’d better be. Otherwise, if I ever meet Judy Blume I’ma punch her right in the face. That bitch fooled us all. She’s one of the reasons there’s too much misleading information out there. That’s why I’m going to give you some real tips for life:

  When you’re feeling crabby, spread it around. You’ll feel better when you fuck up everybody else’s day.

  When you can’t stand the sight of your husband, leave him.

  Smoking a joint helps to relieve the pain of everything.

  If monthly cramps are a bother, have a hysterectomy.

  Fighting fatigue with crack usually helps you get through the day.

  Eating five helpings of fruits and vegetables will give you so much gas, you’ll forget all about your period.

  Water only curbs your cravings for more water. Have the damn chocolate.

  When your body temperature rises, strip down to your granny panties and tell the world to kiss your fat ass.

  Mood swings will often pass with a good cry and a bottle of tequila.

  Don’t let bloating keep you from wearing your favorite jeans. Loop a rubber band over the button and through the hole, then tell everyone it’s in style.

  See, now those are some tips you can use, and we need not ever talk about our periods again. Thank you.

  Alyson Fouse, everybody! Let her hear it. Thanks, Alyson. One thousand, one hundred and fourteen words, good job!