Where Are All the REALLY Slutty Girls?

In keeping with the whorehouse theme of my last blog post, this one takes it one notch closer to the gutter. Get your Lysol wipes and hand gel ready, you’re gonna need them after this post. Mom, Dad…I suggest you stop reading now.

While I work my full-time writerly/publishingerly job, I often get called upon to review books for publishing houses. It’s really cool. I get to read books before the rest of you, and I get to pass judgment on them without ever having to look the poor author in the eye. After one particularly bad incident where I drank the wine BEFORE reviewing Willie Nelson’s book (2 stars…it was pretty bad), I’ve now learned to temper my reactions, remain a professional at all times, and have the wine AFTER writing the review.

But I’m being pushed to my limits with the unholy amount of nasty romance books that literally (editors, I used that word correctly…I mean, actually literally) shows up on my doorstep (the literal door step, right outside my door). I used to clap my hands and feel really smug when a small package from a Big Five publisher would be waiting for me; it made me feel important. Now it just makes me reach for the above mentioned Lysol wipes and hand gel. Here’s why:

I just reviewed a book that included a play-by-play of a twenty-year-old virgin giving her first hand job. There was actually a description of her fascination with studying his um, sample (?) on her hands like a slutty little Jane Goodall…yes, fucking STUDYING, was the word the author chose to use…the biological matter on her hand when he was finished. (Here, take some of my Lysol wipes…I now keep them next to my computer for OCD moments such as this one.)

NOTE TO PUBLISHERS: You’re the reason I drink while I review books. I hope you can live with yourself.

When I was in school, there were quite a number of…worldly…girls among the student body. We heard about them, people whispered about them, but no one really had any concrete proof of their worldliness. Now that Facebook provides us all the proof we need of girls’ rampant and usually drunken worldliness, these books have really started to confuse me.

WHERE ARE THESE AUTHORS DIGGING UP ALL THESE GROWN-UP VIRGINS?!

It’s like every single story line has to follow the archaic model of a sweet and inexplicably innocent barely legal girl paired up with a wealthy, older, experienced, unattached, farm-animal endowed guy. Seriously? Name me three towns in America that has BOTH of those people running around.

So why do people buy this crap? Is it all those worldly girls I alluded to, buying up this stuff and trying to reimagine the way it actually happened? Are they envisioning shyly doing the nasty on his private jet instead of under the bleachers the way they actually did it? And wouldn’t you think it would just make them feel really bad and judgmentalled? Is it because their “firsts” were so unbelievably awkward and therapy-inducing that they need to pretend that these stories are actually happening all over the world right at that very minute?

I’ve always heard that porn gives men unrealistic expectations about women, but the gals are just as guilty. In these books, all men know how to give incredible orgasms while deftly having sex in the back of their limos, quite possibly from the genetic mutation that made them so oversized, and all girls are quiet and timid until the right man comes along who also has a genetic mutation that makes his eyes work differently from the rest of society’s, enabling him to see the beauty beneath her faded, stained hoodie. She morphs before his very eyes into a cross between Miss America and a pole dancer before descending all the way into Vegas hooker mode.

I’ve been a part of the book industry in various forms for quite some time now, and here’s what I think would REALLY sell: total sluts. Guy sluts, girl sluts, sheep sluts, whatever. Absolute, genuine, Facebook-bans-your-account sluts. Tell it like it is, make it as realistic as you want to, and stop pretending that there are bookstores and coffee shops all over the world stocked with wallflowers who just need a good banging from the rich guy who decides to get his own coffee for once. Sluts, I tell ya. That’s the way to go.

Johny Depp Is Trying to Kill Me. And So Is a Herd of Sheep.

I’ve been on a mini-staycation with the kids, which means that they’re out of school and I quit doing anything productive in order to hang out with them. And that was my first mistake. I gave them too much love and attention, and now they think they can talk to me whenever they want to.

Before you judge me for that Mom of the Year Reject statement, please envision the scenario that happened last week in which I bent down to pull up my pants in the bathroom and slammed the back of my skull into my daughter’s chin. Yes, she had decided to come talk to me, despite the fact that I was using the bathroom at the time. That’s how I got to stand there for about five minutes holding a cold washcloth on the blood while my pants remained at my feet. Good thing we were in the bathroom already where the washcloths are, huh?

Now that my kids have 24-hour-a-day access to all things Mom, I’ve noticed a running theme with both of my children. They both appear to be addicts who get really hyper and strung out-acting when they don’t get their fix. But because this is the Lorca household, they can’t be addicted to normal childhood summer type things like TV and popsicles. No, my children, ages thirteen and ten, are addicted to Johnny Depp and sheep. Respectively.

Without ever admitting it because it would just be weird, my daughter seems to have developed a crush on Johnny Depp. And, seriously, what human alive, man or woman, DOESN’T have a crush on Johnny Depp? I mean, he’s awesome. I can’t name three bad films he’s done, and that’s including the 21 Jump Street years. And like a good mommy, I dug my own grave by buying my daughter a couple of Johnny Depp biographies for her birthday earlier this month. Now, she follows me through the house (and yes, even into the bathroom like her younger sister) to read me interesting facts about Mr. Depp. The first few were actually interesting and sparked good discussion, such as the fact that Johnny Depp actually was in the movie Platoon, but his scenes were cut because he apparently is a better actor than Charlie Sheen. The rest of the information? Not as interesting, especially when delivered while I’m working in my office, trying to sleep, or attempting to poop by myself.

Sheep. Where do I even begin? Our younger child has developed an unhealthy fascination with sheep. Not toy sheep, stuffed sheep, live sheep, or eating sheep…with BEING sheep. In case you can’t tell, that word is plural right now because not only has my daughter morphed into a sheep, she has declared me to be her “sheepy mommy” and we can only communicate with sheep noises, including our own ways of saying “I love you” by bleating at each other. Much like Johnny Depp, it was briefly cute and adorable and now I kind of want Johnny and the sheep trapped together on a desert island.

Sadly, I was stupid enough to share that remark out loud, and my older daughter reminded me that Johnny Depp played Captain Jack Sparrow in the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie where he was, in fact, marooned on such an island. He managed to escape the island after his companion, Elizabeth Swan, played by Kiera Knightley, built a signal fire with the stash of rum that Johnny Depp had previously buried on the island that last time he was shipwrecked there.

The really upsetting thing is that I’m somehow the bad guy for rolling my eyes, pulling out my hair, and screaming, “I don’t care!” whenever Johnny Depp or sheep make an appearance, so like a good mother, I just nod my head and take another long drink of whatever I’ve managed to pour myself.

Raping and Pillaging Are Not Résumé Skills

Actual conversation with my autistic child that sucked five minutes of my life out of my body and ate a small piece of my soul.

DAUGHTER: I want to be a Viking when I grow up.

ME: That’s…um… really, really cool!

DAUGHTER: I have to wear a helmet.

ME: Well of course you do! What kind of Viking goes around hitting her head on stuff and getting knocked out because she forgot her helmet? Sheesh!

DAUGHTER: And I have to sing sea shanties.

ME: I think that’s a pirate. You would have to be a pirate to do that.

DAUGHTER: I will sing Viking songs instead.

ME: There you go. Good old fashioned “It’s great to be a Viking” songs.

DAUGHTER: And I need a boat with lots of rowers.

ME: Me too, pumpkin.

DAUGHTER: And I have to kill your whole village and take all your sheep.

ME: Huh?

DAUGHTER: The streets will flow with the blood of our victims.

ME: I’m sorry, what?

DAUGHTER: That’s what Vikings have to say.

ME: No, no, Vikings can say things like, “Here, we have extra sheep in our village that we’re not using, why don’t you take some of ours?”

DAUGHTER: No. The Vikings have to say, “You have to give me all your crops.”

ME: Or…OR…you could be the other kind of Vikings. The ones who got tired of pillaging and therefore immigrated to Minnesota. They still get to wear the helmet, but they pay their taxes instead of stealing sheep. They also go to college and become accountants and stuff like that.

DAUGHTER: Do they still carry their swords and wear their helmets?

ME: Only on casual Fridays.

DAUGHTER: Do they get to steal anything?

ME: It depends on what kind of accountant they are.

DAUGHTER: Do people cower in fear when hordes of Minnesota Vikings come into their cities and villages?

ME: (God forgive me) All the time! They even have these giant arenas where the Vikings take on the weaker underlings just for fun and crowds of people spend a whole Sunday afternoon just to watch.

DAUGHTER: Okay.

I now rue the day I convinced my daughter she couldn’t be a mouse when she grows up.