No Shirt, No Shoes...No Problem!

by Jeff Foxworthy

  I hope I’m not confusing you with these Redneck mating terms. The first means that when you’re kissing a woman, you lean in and make them aware of your package.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “Sorry. I’ve got a severe thigh cramp.”

  I don’t know what the second term means, but it sounded intriguing. There are other moves. The accidental forearm across the breast is always a good one. Hand sliding down to the rear end is another.

  “Oh, gosh, I didn’t realize my hand was on your butt.”

  “Well get it off or you’ll really have a severe thigh cramp.”

  The most serious move is kidnapping.

  So far I haven’t had to resort to that.

  I kissed Gregg goodnight, then I backed away and said, “I’ll call you.” To my surprise, Gregg just grinned and said, “Get in the house.”

  “Alll-riiight, okay, going in the house now.”

  I believe she might have put the chain on the door. Good sign and exactly what I wanted, not that I had anything to do with it. Although my fortunes had brightened I certainly wasn’t going to initiate anything, even if I had made it over the threshold. You’ve got to go through the little ritual. You can’t just walk in the door and go straight to the bedroom and say, “Where do I hang my pants?”

  I’m glad we stayed in the living room to talk. One of the first things Gregg told me was, “You’ve got to get out of your job at IBM. You’ve got too much stuff trying to come out of you.”

  I said, “If you only knew…” I was impressed that she had encouraged my need to entertain and be funny, on the first date. This made me even more crazy about her.

  Then she did something funny. She walked toward the bedroom and said, “Enough chat. Come in here, I want to show you something.”

  Clown paintings. She had clown paintings!

  I wish I could say that before I knew it I heard birds chirping and it was the next morning. But at the time I lived in my mother’s basement. So I had to get up before our passion cooled and call Carole. How impressive is that? I said, “You know, Mom, it’s really late. I’m across town. I think I’m just going to stay at Rob’s house tonight.” It was pretty embarrassing. I’d met the true love of my life and I had to say, “I need to call my mother.” Fortunately, Gregg didn’t react badly at all. She laughed. She’d just moved out of her dad’s house. She knew exactly what I was going through.

  The next morning I had to face Gregg’s roommate. I had that good-morning hair and the previous night’s disco clothes. I said, “Hi, how are you? You guys have any orange juice?” One look at her face and I knew what she was thinking, “What kind of slut have I moved in with? She’s here for eight hours and…”

  “By the way,” I said. “You were right. I’m smut.”

  “I told you so,” she said.

  After that night Mr. Slow-and-Easy became like a tick. You could have burned my butt with three thousand hot match heads, and I still wouldn’t have let go. We were inseparable. We went out every night. Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. On Thursday morning we finally decided, “Whoa, better slow down. Remember, neither of us wants to get involved. This is going really fast. Thursday night we will not see each other.” That lasted until about nine that night, when I called Gregg and we talked for forty minutes on the phone. I said, “Let’s meet for a drink somewhere,” and we did. After that we were more or less living together. My routine became: go to work, get off, meet Gregg.

  I had to keep telling my mom that I was staying at Rob Burkett’s. I was an adult and could do what I wanted, but moms are sensitive that way. No one wants their kid to walk around with a large “Living in Sin” sign stamped on their forehead. Besides, my mom is a religious woman. It’s a wonder she didn’t get suspicious of me and Rob, since Carole thought Rob was really cute. I guess that’s what she meant when she said, “Rob Burkett would be handsome in a barrel.” Come to think of it, she probably could have handled the news that Rob and I were in love more easily.

  Eventually, I told my mom I was moving out of the basement and in with Big Jim across town. I didn’t go there much except to grab some clothes.

  Once again, Gregg urged me to quit my job at IBM and try comedy full-time, and I finally took her advice. When I walked out the door at Big Blue on December 31, 1984, I had eleven minutes of material. I banked my career on that. Nobody knew me. Most of the time they didn’t care. I was just a distraction while people got drinks and chatted before the headliner came on. Even so, I spent my entire day getting ready to work fifteen minutes a night.

  About five weeks into this new arrangement Gregg realized I wasn’t making any money. So she did the only thing she could do, besides dump me at the roadside like Bob the car. She quit acting and doing commercials and took a full-time job to support my dream. What can I say? All I could do was wonder what I’d done to deserve this woman. I still think that. Within twenty minutes on a night in June 1984, I’d not only discovered what I wanted to do with the rest of my life, but I’d also met the woman with whom I wanted to spend it. That’s even better than bagging a deer, catching the biggest lake bass, and sleeping with every woman DeWayne Twilley has known—all at once. That’s really saying something.

  When a man is with the right woman, one day he must actually declare his love. Saying, “I really like you,” “I’m crazy for you,” or “You’re more fun than the Home Ec. teacher” just won’t cut it anymore. I’d bit my lip bloody for weeks, trying not to tell Gregg that I’d loved her from the first date. Finally, I couldn’t contain myself. We were standing in a restaurant parking lot, three weeks after our first night together, and I said, “I’ve got to tell you something.”

  She said, “Don’t.”

  I said, “No, I’ve got to.”

  “Don’t.”

  “No, I’ve got to tell you this.”

  “Please don’t.”

  “I love you.”

  “Oh my God.”

  The worst part is that she didn’t say it back. When you say you love a woman and she doesn’t respond in kind, certain things go through your head like, “She’s going to change her phone number in the morning.” Suddenly I felt like a candidate for one of those talk shows where you have the tearful reunion five years later.

  HOST: Remember you were going out. You had a great time. He said “I love you.” You disappeared and moved to Nevada. Well, now he’s rich, he’s famous, and he’s still single. Here he is again!

  ME: (looking very sharp, but wiping a small tear from my eye) Hi.

  GREGG: (impressed) I do love him. I just forgot to say it. He’s rich? Yeah, I love him!

  That’s her joke now: She married me for my money.

  If you’re looking for advice about saying “I love you” first or holding out, don’t look here. Once you’re in love, you just become stupid. Part of you thinks, “Don’t say this yet. She hasn’t given any indication that she’s gonna say it back. Bide your time. It’s going well. Ride it out.” But that “in-love” part of your brain goes, “It’s okay, just say it. Just damn well say it! Shout it from the rooftops!” That part always overrides everything else. I’ve only said it to a few women and I’ve always meant it, except for a couple of times when the woman in question was sitting on top of me. Naked.

  Here we were falling for each other and it felt as glorious as screaming “Free Bird” at a Lynyrd Skynyrd concert. Although Gregg didn’t say she loved me, I wasn’t afraid that she’d suddenly leave me. I knew that because the first night she’d told me that she had promised herself never to get involved with another man unless he was smart, funny, and sexy. She had to have all three. Being an insecure, amateur-night comic, I waited until morning and asked: “All right, so how many out of the three do I get?” I don’t have to tell you the answer, do I?

  Maybe I do, but I won’t. I was raised right.

  Eventually, Gregg uttered the magic words. “Honey, would you mind picking up some barbeque on the way home?�
�� She also confessed to being in love with me. Before long we began to talk about marriage. Well, I talked about it. We’d moved in together, I wanted to get married. She didn’t. I hounded her for a little while, then decided to let it go. Suddenly she “kind of” wanted to get married. I pouted and said, “No. You broke my heart. You didn’t want to get married when I wanted to get married, so now I don’t want to get married.” So we stopped talking about it altogether, but only for a while.

  The summer after I met Gregg I again entered the Great Southeastern Laugh Off at the Punchline, and this time won it all. Part of the prize was $500 and a trip to New York to play at Catch-a-Rising-Star in Manhattan. Gregg and I went up together. I had no money. She had a credit card. We stayed at a place on 49th and Broadway. Great neighborhood. Looking out our bedroom window we could see a huge movie theater marquee across the street. I’ll always remember what was playing: Horny Sluts.

  Give my regards to Broadway.

  Since we were in town and flush, we decided to get married. We’d talked about it enough and New York seemed like a cool place. No family or friends, no hassles. I called a comedian friend of mine, Rob Bartlett, who is a very funny guy and, at the time, was the only guy I knew in New York. I said, “We’ve decided to get married. I need a best man.” We went to City Hall to get a marriage license. Then we started looking for a justice of the peace. We couldn’t find one in the phone book, so I called churches. Finally one minister said he’d marry us and only charge $300.

  “I don’t have $300,” I said. “Why is it so much?”

  “Well, it’s $200 for the chapel and $100 for me.”

  “Look, we don’t need the chapel,” I said. “We can do this in your office. Do it in the hall. Even out back.”

  “You know what?” he said. “I’m right across the street from the garden at Central Park. If you want, I’ll walk across the street and do it for $100.”

  I said, “You’ve got a deal. Thursday at noon.”

  When the time came I wore a $35 suit. It had no lining. I think it was part of the prize for winning the Laugh Off. I’ve still got it for special occasions. Rob Bartlett showed up with his wife, who was about eight months pregnant, and a twenty-pound bag of rice he’d bought on the way. Then Reverend Leonard arrived.

  We had our vows ready.

  ME: Hey, you know, man, I’m gonna try an stop foolin’ around with other wimmens now and everything. You know I love you.

  SHE: What with the baby comin’ and everything, I figured we might as well get married.

  ME: She likes to party.

  SHE: And so does he.

  ME: (To her dad) It’s okay, man, put that shotgun down.

  I’m pledgin everlastin’ luuuvvv.

  Bet you believed it for just a second.

  It was a fine day for a wedding. Just the four of us; oh, and the guy sweeping the park, around the fountain in the garden. We had to plead with him to move out of the way so we could get married. He stood to the side while the Reverend recited the standard ceremony. Afterwards the sweeper said, “Please, please don’t throw that rice or I’ll have to clean up again.”

  “But we’ve got to throw the rice,” I said.

  Bartlett gave him twenty bucks and he was happy. He’s also in our four wedding pictures. That was part of the deal. There we are: me, Gregg, the Bartletts, Reverend Leonard, and Andre the park sweeper, who also somehow managed to get his arm around my new wife.

  By the way, I hear you’re not supposed to throw rice anymore at weddings. Bird seed is preferred. Apparently the birds eat the rice, then when they drink water the rice puffs up, and the birds explode. Really. Forget the wedding. I’d pay $100 to see that.

  Afterward we took the Bartletts to the Tavern on the Green for lunch. Then Gregg tried to inject a little culture into my life and we went to see two plays. Between the first and the second we called our respective families from a phone booth to give them the big news.

  It’s better that way, believe me.

  No matter what your love life is like before marriage, the vows change everything. This is probably not news to anyone except hermit crabs and certain movie stars who keep marrying and hoping for something to change. (Remember, insanity is doing the same thing over and over while expecting a different result.) But considering all the advice books sold on how to find a mate, please your mate, talk to your mate (and, for beginners, how to tell the difference between potential mates and common barnyard animals), it’s not like everyone’s doing such a great job here. We seem to need all the help we can get. So please, benefit from my experience, or my complete naivete. Whichever works in a pinch.

  FRIENDS

  Even before you’re hitched, your friends put out an all-points bulletin that you’re missing in action. At first they wait to see if you’re just having another of your renowned three-week relationships: court them, catch them, cash them in. But if it continues longer, then they can’t avoid the Truth: you’re no longer available to trade babe stories, pull all-nighters, and bar hop—unless you can do it in the living room, with the wife’s permission, after she falls asleep. Even so, this doesn’t help much because your friends will still resent your woman for taking you away from them. And she will be uptight because when you entertain the old gang, she has to listen to them tell stories about the crazy things you did when you were single.

  Later, when you’re lying in bed hoping to get lucky, she’ll say, “Tell me you did not moon a bus full of nuns.”

  “I didn’t know they were nuns.”

  “How could you not know?”

  “I wasn’t looking at them.”

  “It was still your ass on the window. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Goodnight.”

  Fortunately, you don’t have to shoulder all the blame. Whimper enough and your wife will turn back in your direction and say, “I know you couldn’t have done it all by yourself, honey. It’s those no-account friends. I love yew.”

  Such is the power of rationalization and, if you’re really in the doghouse, tears.

  The smart man reveals as little as possible about his past activities and convinces his friends to do likewise if they want to have any hope of seeing him again in their lifetimes. You can tell some cute little stories, but the trip to Mexico to see Pepe the Wonder Donkey is probably one to keep close to the vest.

  Even more important, never talk about old girlfriends. I’m always stunned and amazed when I meet couples who tell each other in graphic detail everything that they’ve done sexually with other people before they met. I hear that sometimes this can be a stimulating marital aid, but even so, Gregg and I made a pact immediately: We didn’t want to know any intimate details of previous relationships. I don’t want to hear about it. My imagination’s too vivid.

  So as far as I know, neither Gregg nor I have been with anyone before being with each other.

  INTIMATE RELATIONS

  Marriage alters both the quantity and quality of your intimate relations. Anyone who says it doesn’t is either single or lying. With married sex you never have to worry about dislocating your shoulder. With single sex, you always do it like there’s a crowd watching and someone’s keeping score. Initially, married sex is really not that much different from single sex, but the longer you do it the tougher it is to find ways keep it interesting. Finally, you’re just trying to find ways to stay awake. (I say that in jest, honey, because I want to continue to have sex.)

  A big difference between married and single sex is that the former now seems to take place much more within the home, and specifically the bedroom. I don’t know what women do, but when guys get together they will eventually talk about the weirdest places they’ve gotten lucky. That’s always a fascinating conversation. Not always believable, but still compelling.

  I know one guy who was quite proud of doing it on top of an off-balanced Maytag washing machine in the middle of spin cycle. Apparently that was the key: in the middle of spin cycle. Seems you get some type of vibrations ther
e that you can’t get anywhere else on the planet.

  Another guy once told me he did it in a deer stand twenty-five feet off the ground.

  “Didn’t see any deer, didn’t give a damn.”

  “What about the silence is golden hunting rule?”

  “Lifted it.”

  What’s truly amazing is that he was a sane, rational person who had a good job, made his mortgage payments, and knew exactly what to do if a deer wandered past while he was mating in a tree.

  “Stop, reach for the shotgun, and fire. You should always keep the gun nearby, with one in the chamber. Deer don’t come along that often. But if you’ve got a romantic bone in your body, you finish the act before you clean the deer.”

  My point is that when you’re married you have to keep things interesting. I’ve sometimes thought, “Why didn’t we try this five years ago?” But then I guess it just never occurred to me to bring a spatula to bed.

  SIGNS ALONG THE WAY

  To have any chance of sex materializing, all the proper signs and signals must happen. When you’re single, a stop sign will suffice. If it’s not a busy intersection, what the hey? When you’re married, other important considerations arise:

  1. Does she have to get up early for work?

  2. Is any family member in the midst of a crisis, and could he or she call and force you to discuss it at an inconvenient time?

  3. Are the dishes washed? Women can’t do it with dirty dishes in the sink. I don’t know why, but the smell of rotting food does not stimulate the sex glands. My advice: Learn to wash dishes. It’s mindless, relaxing, they’ve got soap that won’t chaff your hands, and if you don’t tell on me I won’t tell on you.

  4. Body temperature is important. If it’s too hot or too cold, you ain’t doing it, buddy.