Life Laughs: The Naked Truth about Motherhood, Marriage, and Moving On

by Jenny McCarthy

  If you’ve read my other books you know that I seemed to be plagued by poo. Some might think I’m obsessed with talking about it and that could be true. I think because I have had so many problems with it, I have to find the humor in it. Let’s face it. Sometimes poop is funny. On that note, here’s my second most embarrassing story. Enjoy.

  The second boyfriend I ever had I nicknamed “Chunkman.” Named after his chunky belly, even though he always thought it was his chunky penis. Shh. Don’t tell him. The moment I met him I thought I was going to marry him. He was very Zen and had beautiful philosophies on life, probably because of the enormous amount of pot he smoked. Anyway, he lit candles all over the room and put some Pink Floyd on the stereo. This was going to be our first romantic rendezvous. He kissed me passionately and played with my breasts for a whole fifteen minutes! Who does that anymore? Anyway, I couldn’t wait for him to rip off my pants and go down on me. He slowly made his way there, teasing every inch before the panties came off. Once they did he smiled lovingly at me and then dove in. He was doing quite well for a boy in college until he started coughing while down there. He looked like he was a little embarrassed by the coughing, so I showed him how it wasn’t bothering me by spreading my legs even further. He then shot up from between my legs, gasping for air. I said, “What’s the matter?”

  He replied, “You have a dingleberry hanging off your butt. I’m sorry, but I was trying to hold my breath.”

  I ran into the bathroom, and sure enough, he was right. I wanted God to take me away and save me from this horrid nightmare, but he didn’t. Instead I started crying and told “Chunkman” to go home. We did see each other after that, but you can be damn sure my ass was so clean you could have eaten dinner off it.

  So if you ever get caught in one of life’s embarrassing moments, reflect on mine, because I’m sure it will make you feel better. Life always has a way of keeping you in check, even if you THINK you look hot in a red dress or smell like roses.

  Going at It Alone

  I know some women who have gone through divorce feel as if they have failed. I think the reason I stayed in my own marriage longer than I should have was because I never quit at anything I start. I always give my all to everything I do. How could I bow out of something so sacred, especially when there was a child involved? I can’t believe today that I still had the guts to go through with it, but in the end I never felt as good about myself as I do today.

  The last time I was single was when I was twelve years old. I was one of those girls who had the next boyfriend lined up before I broke up with the one I was with. Being alone was something I was deathly afraid of. Wait, let me correct that. Being alone is still something I’m afraid of. I always morphed myself into the person I thought I should be for the man I was dating. This left me with little sense of self. So I never really got to just sit and face my own shit.

  Your partner in life should complement who you are, not reflect who you are. I was such a caretaker that I would constantly try to help the other person because it seemed so much easier than fixing myself. I thought if he would just be happy, then I would be happy. Boy, is that bullshit. There’s that whole spiritual philosophy that people who insult and put down other people are actually saying it to themselves. I believe this to be true. They are miserable inside, so they point the finger at everyone else, hoping it will make them feel more secure. In my case, I would do the opposite. I would try so hard to pick people up, hoping it would do the same for me. It never really did.

  I’ve been on my own for a few months now, and I’m slowly getting used to “going at it alone.” There are times in bed when I miss having a hairy foot to rub against or someone to yell at when I feel crabby, but all in all, it’s nice to just worry about my own feelings. I still don’t understand the concept of “figuring out who you are,” but I’m sure in time I will have watched enough episodes of Oprah to grasp it.

  For those women out there who are divorced and are still carrying around the slightest feeling of failure, please, for the love of God, throw it down the garbage disposal. Get rid of it! Fry it up in a pan and feed it the dogs. I’m looking at this new journey as a victory. It’s time to start over and feel empowered about who I am. If you feel like a failure, you will become one. If you feel like a winner, the world will open up so many opportunities you won’t know which door to choose. Damn, I sound like a fortune cookie.

  Good luck out there to the ladies who need a pick-me-up. Remember, you’re not alone. Jennifer Aniston, Uma Thurman, and Jessica Simpson are also in the divorcée club. So hold your head up high and don’t worry about trying to find that hairy foot to lie next to at night. You need to worry about yourself, and the right hairy foot will come along when it’s supposed to.

  The Power of the Pussy

  Everyone has a different name for it. I like to call it poontango and sometimes canooter. I think when you name it something cute, it makes it sound prettier. It makes you think it might have curtains on it with some welcoming throw pillows, like the inside of Jeannie’s bottle. Whatever you do call it, it is truly the one and only thing that rules mankind. If it wasn’t for the power of the pussy, women would still not be allowed to vote and some man never would have invented the dishwasher. Think about it, if we don’t get shit done, we are not happy. If we are not happy, we don’t put out. So throughout history there was always some wife using her pussy as collateral to get shit done. Not LITERALLY, of course. I don’t think Rosa Parks flashed her canooter to get a seat at the front of the bus. But we all know the one thing most men want, and thank God we are holding the key.

  Let’s talk about the actual vagina for a second. I never really figured out the plumbing until I was much older. I was scared to even look at it. It seemed wrong to actually take a mirror and check it out, and when I finally did in my teens I was horrified. I didn’t understand why men found it so sexy. It just looked like a couple of pieces of bologna. And then there are some women who have out-ies and others have innies. An innie is when the clitoris is kind of hidden away under a hood, and the outie is when the hood door is left open. After watching Pamela Anderson’s porno I couldn’t help but notice she has an innie. I hated the fact that not only does she have a perfect body but even her pussy could have its own monthly calendar. I have an outie and have always been kind of embarrassed by it ’cause it just seems like a messy deli counter. A bunch of meat shoved around on display.

  Anyway, it amazes me that some men are really good at maneuvering their way around there and some are so bad you’re actually embarrassed for them. In the past I’ve noticed that explaining it to them during their voyage down under can really help. Shouting things like “RIGHT THERE!” (because they licked off half your thigh just trying to find the spot) and “KEEP DOING IT JUST LIKE THAT!” (because if you don’t tell them to keep up with that motion they will do eighty different types of magic tricks with fingers and tongues that won’t let you get to the finish line). Consistency in motion is key in this department. Also, if you feel your guy kind of gets it and kind of doesn’t, try talking to him about it. It’s much better than having to lie upside down with your legs around your neck just so he can find the spot.

  Now let’s talk about grooming your canooter. It’s very common to have the hair down below at least mowed or waxed monthly. The most common method is shaving and then just trimming the foyer carpet. About five years ago, the trend was just to leave a small, straight patch. Nowadays, it’s barren as a desert. Girls are shaving it all off. If you are reading this and have never done a trim down there, for God’s sake, girlfriend, go get some scissors and start cutting. It’s hard enough for guys to maneuver there, and if you leave a jungle to try and get through I would get lost, too. We’re not in the caveman days anymore, when women needed to have pubic hair to keep dirt out as they sat on the earth without any fig leaves. We’ve got underwear now and douches, so shave it off! It’s also a good thing to do if you ever want to surprise your husband. It could actually be
the best and cheapest birthday gift you could give him if you’ve never been barren before. I used to have a smooth runway, but now I am forced to grow out a foyer carpet to cover my C-section scar. But I still keep the landing strip smooth.

  So the next time your man thinks he holds the power, simply spread your legs and watch him fall to his knees. The power of the pussy will never be overthrown!

  Life’s Pet Peeves

  Where in the hell did this name come from? We all know what it refers to, but why anyone said, “That asshole is chewing with his mouth open and it really annoys me. Hey, I’ve got the perfect name for it. I’m going to call it a pet peeve!” I’m sure if I did some homework on it and looked it up I would find the origin, but this is not that kind of book. I just want to bitch about them, not see if the expression “pet peeves” might be buried in the Bible code somewhere.

  I checked out most of my pet peeves with my friends just to make sure they resembled some of theirs. The conversation sounded like my friends were having orgasms. Whenever I would say something, all you heard on the other end of the phone was “OH, YES, YES, YES!”

  I found that most of my pet peeves were in the supermarket. As a mother or wife you find yourself inside the damn market almost every day. Just being there is a pet peeve and then add old people to it and it really is hell on earth. Let’s go right to the deli counter. I pull a number and see that I’m number eighty, but the sign says they are only on number sixty-five. Unfortunately, number sixty-five is a granny who is asking to taste-test the pastrami. There are fifteen people behind Granny with laser beams shooting from their eyes into Grandma’s head. I’m sure you can all guess what Granny does next. That’s right, she asks to taste the cheese. Now if you’re that old, I’m sure you’ve tasted Swiss cheese somewhere in your eighty years of life. Swiss cheese tastes like Swiss cheese. Move on, Grandma. There’s four generations of people behind you!!!

  Let’s move on to the aisles now. I hate hate hate when a person has his or her cart in the middle of the aisle blocking your way to move forward. I have politely said, “Excuse me,” and it drives me insane when they do NOTHING! They are so caught up in reading the labels of their favorite canned foods that they have no idea they’ve caused a traffic jam.

  Now it’s time to get rung up. I don’t know about your grocery store, but there are twelve checkout stands at mine, and every time I go there, they have only TWO open. There’s always about fifteen people in each line and of course someone always pulls out a checkbook to pay for their food when your screaming baby has been in line for twenty minutes. This is the world of ATMs now, people. Unless you’re married to Fred Flintstone, you should try and get with the times.

  Another biggie of mine is when someone is talking to me and someone else walks up and asks me a question while I am listening to one conversation already. My head bops back and forth, not knowing who to answer first. UGH!

  I also hate when people are intensely making out in public places. Teenagers are okay, but if you have boobs that have moved passed the belly button region and your husband resembles Santa, please don’t slip him the tongue in public places.

  Last but not least is when I’m trying to make a left turn and the car in front of me won’t move up into the middle of the intersection. They hang back, waiting for the light to turn yellow, only allowing THEIR OWN CAR TO TURN LEFT. I HATE IT!!

  Okay, I’m done screaming, but if you are in front of me in any deli counter line I highly suggest NOT asking to taste the cheese or I might just have to cut the cheese on you!

  His New Girlfriend

  For those of you who are still successfully married, you won’t really be able to relate to this chapter, but you are more than welcome to live vicariously through my own pain in this situation. I have yet to include a new man in my life, but John has already gotten himself a girlfriend. It’s still relatively new, so I’m not interested in meeting her yet. I’m sure there will be quite a few of these “sperm banks” before he settles on a bank he wants to be inside for more than a week. So needless to say, I’m in no hurry to make an introduction to the first one.

  The first awkward thing that happened was that he came to me and asked me for some girlfriend advice. I mean, come ON! I looked at him like he was on crack. Then a few weeks later, he felt like he needed to share intimate sexual details with me. I plugged my ears and started shouting “LALALALALALA!” The weird thing is that I’m not jealous in the least bit, but hearing him talk about sex with someone else is like a brother telling you how he went down on a chick. When I asked him why he felt the need to share this “vagina sandwich” story with me, he said that I was his best friend and he thought it wouldn’t bother me. I told him to find a best friend with a penis who would enjoy hearing about a girl who can make her vagina sing songs. Personally, I think he’s testing me to see if I get jealous, but it’s not working. I really do hope he finds someone he cares about someday, but for Pete’s sake, I’ve got my own vagina. I don’t want to hear about anybody else’s.

  This past weekend I wanted to go to this designer warehouse sale, so I called John up at the last minute to see if he would babysit. He barked for a minute and then agreed only if I would buy his “sperm bank” a pair of jeans. I quickly said yes, told him to hurry up, and then hung up the phone. It took me a second to realize what he had just asked me to do. He had asked me to buy something for HIS girlfriend. OH, MY GOD. When he got to my house I told him I wasn’t sure if they made jeans for loose vaginas but I would look. He snickered and then blurted out that she was a size 24. A size 24? Who in the hell is a size 24? I’ve never in my life known anyone who fit into a size 24. I said, “What is she, sixteen?” He blurted, “No, she’s just skinny.”

  “Or a coke whore.” I giggled and walked out the door.

  Once I took care of my own shopping discount spree I wandered over to the bulimic jean sizes. As I searched the rack I was surprised to see that they even made women’s jeans in this size. I held a pair up to myself and noticed that the thigh portion of the jean covered only half my thigh. I thought maybe this girl might not have been born with a quad muscle. It was really the only other explanation besides the bulimic, coke whore, or being sixteen scenario. As I continued to look, I found myself struggling yet again with which kind of jeans to get her. Do I buy her an ugly pair so she looks like shit in them? But if I do, then she’ll think I have really bad taste, and if I buy her a really cool pair she’ll think my taste is awesome but unfortunately look incredibly hot. Now that you guys have gotten to know me, which jeans do you think I went with? That’s right, I went with the ugly ones. I came back home and handed them to John, and he examined them.

  He said, “Are rhinestones on jeans ‘in’ right now?”

  I replied, “Totally, especially these ones, because the rhinestones are shaped into butterflies.”

  “Cool,” he said.

  With that, he left, and I smiled, knowing that not even Kate Moss could make those jeans look good.

  So I’m sure I’m headed into more situations that involve new “sperm banks” as time goes on. I’ll just deal with them as they come, but if he ever asks me to buy something for his girlfriend again I’ll reply, “Sure, but maybe on your way over you wouldn’t mind picking up a large cock ring for my new boyfriend.” Okay, maybe I am a little jealous.

  Death Becomes You

  I can’t do a book about life and not mention death. It’s an inevitable event that will happen to all of us—we just hope much later rather than sooner. My dream death scenario would be when I’m about eighty-seven years old and I lie down to take a nap and never wake up. How awesome would that be?

  I still have a hard time with the concept of open-casket ceremonies. I can’t imagine someone painting makeup on my face after my eyelids and mouth have been glued shut. I will be so pissed off if my loved ones do not nail my coffin shut and just put adorable pictures of me up and tell humorous stories about me. I would much rather have people listen to a story a
bout how I crapped myself at an autograph signing than to compliment how the formaldehyde is really keeping things together.

  Now that I am a mother, dying takes on a whole new meaning. I’m not scared about death whatsoever because of my beliefs in the afterlife. I just have to take better responsibility for my own health so I can be with my boy as long as I physically can. When I was in college, I was a real risk taker. I skydived, slept with weirdos, drank till I puked, and popped stuff into my mouth that would “open doors” to new dimensions. Now I’m afraid to take aspirin. I can’t imagine doing anything that would jeopardize my future with my son, which was the number-one reason I quit smoking.

  If you haven’t made out your will, you’d better get your ass on it. Some people are spooked out by doing it, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. I was amazed to find out that, at least in California, if you leave your money to your spouse, he or she does not have to pay taxes on it, but when you leave it to your children, they do have to pay taxes on it. That’s such bullshit. It’s crazy to me that you would get taxed again on anything that you have ALREADY paid taxes on. Ugh! Oprah needs to run for president. The country would be a much better place.

  Escaping death is something I can say I’ve already done many times. If cats really do have nine lives, then I should be spitting up fur balls and crapping in a litterbox in my house. My biggest near-death experience happened to me on my very first episode of MTV’s Singled Out. We shot our first show during spring break, and I was forced to stay in a crappy puke-filled hotel the night before. Speaking of puke, my boyfriend at the time was with me and was suffering from the stomach flu. I had to get some serious sleep because this was going to be my television debut, and I thought it would be nice if I left a candle burning for him in the bathroom. This way he could see where his puke was going while being romantically lit. I, of course, was snoring logs in bed getting my beauty sleep.