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My girlfriend has a checkered past. When she was in college, she worked as a topless dancer. She’s also been divorced twice, although she doesn’t have any kids. Also, she used to have a drinking problem (now she only drinks socially), and she used to be a heavy smoker, but she’s cut down to a pack a day.

Then there’s the age difference. She’s 37, and I’m a 19-year-old college sophomore majoring in civil engineering. I come from a very straight-laced, religious background, and my parents don’t approve of Bonnie. They don’t like the fact that I met her during a life drawing class (even us brainiacs have to take a certain number of fine arts credits), where she was working as a nude model, and they strongly disapprove of her past history, not to mention the fact that she sings in local nightclubs and plans to become a recording artist.

The thing is, I love Bonnie with all my heart. I feel she’s my soulmate, that I can build a life with her. How can I get my parents to accept her?

Lovelorn,
Brandon in South Carolina

Savannah Says:

I think I saw something like this on an episode of Bonanza. Adam Cartwright fell for the daughter of a Jewish peddler, who didn’t approve of Adam because he wasn’t Jewish and didn’t know the first thing about the old Jewish traditions. But then Adam came to the peddler’s rescue and managed to kill two guys who were trying to steal his money, not to mention torturing the peddler and trying to rape his daughter, and then the peddler came around to the fact that maybe he was too strict with his daughter and should probably let her go to the dance with Adam after all, because, let’s face it, the prospects of finding his daughter a Jewish scholar to marry in late-1800s Nevada were pretty slim.

OK, maybe that doesn’t really match your problem, because Adam Cartwright was a fine, upstanding man in the community, with no skeletons in his closet. Educated, handsome, and rich, it’s incredible he went for five seasons without getting married off.

Come to think of it, your problem is more like the episode in which Little Joe hires one of the ranch hands, a former bounty hunter, to find out who’s rustling the herds of the Cattlemen’s Association. The ranch hand’s dating a saloon girl in Carson City, and he keeps promising her he’s going to make some “real money” soon and take her away from “all of this” to something better in San Francisco. The saloon girl keeps pretending she believes in his fantasy scheme, but deep down she doesn’t believe she’s worth it. She thinks Dan, the ranch hand, deserves better than her, even though she truly loves him. Dan ends up falsely accused of killing a rustler, but Little Joe proves one of the Cattlemen’s Association members did it. Meanwhile, the saloon girl keeps plying her trade, and Dan ends up leaving town without her, his heart shattered by her infidelity, but with a nifty $1300 in his pocket.

Yes, this is much more like your situation. Of course, in the television show, Dan did the sensible thing. He accepted the fact that the saloon girl would never change, and he cut his losses by leaving her.

Naturally, that is wrong. That only works in the movies. In real life, you have to try to change the people you love, and that is what I’d recommend you do with Bonnie. If you work at it hard enough, I’m sure you can mold her into the kind of woman your parents want you to have: an honest, loving, responsible helpmate who will bear you many children and always be there to support you in your times of need. You simply need to tell her what you expect of her, and if she truly loves you, she’ll be more than willing to change herself into the woman of your dreams.

Or, you can tell your parents you want $1300 to dump her and take the cash. Either way, it’s a win-win situation. Good luck!

[Note from Elizabeth: Next week, I’ll make sure Miss Lawless does not have access to both the remote control and the liquor cabinet key. Gin and Pax-TV just don’t mix.]

© 2000-2002 Elizabeth Hanes

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“I think by now, we all pretty much know what’s going to happen, anyways,” explained chief research analyst Bill Spickley. “We’re just saving the public a little of their precious time – that’s all.”

Famed basketball legend Shaquille O’Neal broke it down old school for Just Laugh’s crew, “This is great…it really takes a lot of pressure off of me…allowing me to focus on more important things in my life, such as my acting career. By the way, is it cool if I plug my next flick, Kazaam 2 – The Return of…”

(Unfortunately, the tape ended there, but we’re sure that it’s going to be just as great as the original was. At least he’s still a hit on the court!)

Spickley finished by giving a subtle hint, “If this goes over well, it could be the beginning of a very popular practice. Just think of all the dates we could add – ‘Daryl Strawberry Goes to Court Day,’ ‘Detroit Tigers Suck Day,’ and my personal favorite, ‘Anna Kournikova Bears All in Penthouse Day!'” We can hardly wait…

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As a result, all Michiganders have the annoying habit of showing where they live by holding up their right hand and pointing to the location with their left hand.

I really hate it when they do this.

I’m from Indiana, which is shaped like a painfully-pointed boot. So when Michiganders show me where they live, I point to the part of my state that will kick them in their Florida if they don’t stop.

Originally called “Michilimackinac” by French missionaries in the 1600s, the name was later shortened to Mackinac. However, because the French never spell things the way they sound, Mackinac is actually pronounced “Mackinaw.”

This is something the island residents take very seriously. It’s a major faux pas (pronounced “foe pah” — see how that works?) to mispronounce the name of their home, and they get very annoyed whenever anyone is crass enough to call it “Mackinack.”

Although Mackinac Island has a rich and colorful history, a relaxed, friendly atmosphere, and is known for its world-class fudge, the thing that sticks out in everyone’s mind is the lack of cars on the island.

“How’s come there’s no cars on this here island?!” first-time visitors gawk.

With the exception of a couple emergency and maintenance vehicles, there are no electric or gasoline powered vehicles anywhere. Anyone who wants to get around the island does so on foot, by bicycle, or on horseback. But you will see dozens of teams of horses pulling carts or taxis throughout the day. This also means the horses will stop in the middle of the street, and treat it like a paved toilet.

“What is that SMELL?!” the first-time visitors shout, wrinkling their noses.

Although horse deposits make crossing the street an adventure in itself, it adds an extra level of excitement during high-speed bicycle police pursuits.

Walking is free, of course, but in the true spirit of island entrepreneurship, visitors can rent bicycles for the day or horses by the hour. When my wife and I visited Mackinac Island a few years ago, we went horseback riding for the first time. We loved it so much, we decided to try it again on this trip.

I’d like to point out that I will not name the stable we used. While I only had a couple extremely minor complaints on this trip, I don’t want them to read this column and assign me a horse named Thundering Death the next time we’re there.

We chose Western style riding over English style, since English saddles don’t have a horn, which is useful for holding on (the horn is also useful for beeping at other riders when they’re being jerks). A couple stablehands brought our horses out, and gave us some important information about them. The horses, not themselves. Stablehands are very private about their own lives.

“Sandy is a good leader, so you ride in front,” they told my wife. They brought my horse to me. “Jake just likes to stop and eat.”

“Sounds like Jake and I have a lot in common,” I said.

“No, you can’t let him do that. If you don’t control him, he’ll think he can boss you around. Just pull his reins if he tries it.”

Although we chose the unguided tour, a guide rode out with us to show us the way to the trails. As we headed out of town, she told my wife, “Make sure you keep Sandy on the right side of the road.”

I couldn’t resist. “If we were riding English style, would we ride on the left side of the road?”

My wife laughed, but our guide just stared blankly at me.

“No, you would still ride on the right.”

I tried to explain, so she wouldn’t think I was a complete moron. “I meant that in England, they drive on the left side, so English style riding would have the same–”

“Yes, I know.” Too late. She thought I was a moron.

It’s been my experience that horse people are members of some kind of fanatical cult. They love their animals, tolerate humans, but despise morons who crack horse jokes. And apparently I had just offended their queen. I was sure she was sending telepathic messages to Jake to throw me off and trample me.

I didn’t crack another joke the whole time our guide was with us, but the damage had been done. Jake didn’t appreciate my humor either, and abused me for the rest of the trip. I discovered he had an annoying habit of falling way behind Sandy and then trotting to catch up with her.

He did this because he realized I had foolishly asked for my stirrups to be lengthened, thus insuring I couldn’t raise myself out of the saddle far enough to relieve any of the . . . painful bouncing . . . I felt when he trotted.

“Jake, go catch up with Sandy,” I told him the first time he fell behind. “Let’s go.”

“Tell him giddyup,” my wife hollered to me.

“That’s stupid. They only say giddyup in Westerns,” I hollered back.

I felt like a goober saying “Giddyup,” and thought it was one of the least macho things I could actually tell a horse, short of discussing my feelings with it. Besides, real cowboys say things like “Onward ho!” or “Yoiks and away!” or something equally cool.

“Move it,” I cried. “Run, Jake! Run like the wind!”

Nothing.

Jake continued moseying along at his usual pace, waiting for me to drop my guard so he could eat everything in sight. I sighed and looked around for any cowboys who might laugh at me.

“Giddyup.”

Jake’s ears perked up, so I said it louder.

“Giddyup Jake.” He trotted up to Sandy, bouncing me the entire way. Once he caught up, he backed off again. She had “used the island” during the trip, so I couldn’t blame him for wanting to keep a safe distance.

“Get up!” I tried. It was less silly than giddyup, and he actually responded to it. “Get up, Jake.” It wasn’t “Yoiks and away!” but at least it wasn’t “Giddyup.”

“I think I’m getting the hang of this,” I called to my wife, three miles ahead of me.

And it was true! I was growing more confident with each painful bounce. I was one dusty trail ride from becoming a true “Yoiks and away!” cowboy, and was positive I would soon become an expert at riding horseback.

Or is that riding horsebaw?

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I come from a small family…. my parents are midgets. Well, not really. But there are only three kids in the family. All boys. I’m the middle child. I didn’t get to be responsible, nor did I get treated like a baby. I did, however, get hand-me-downs. I hated these old, raggedy clothes. But I guess it’s better than getting hand-me-ups. I’d hate to be in a position where my mother says, “Jason, these Yoda underoos used to belong to your younger brother (Ron). See if they fit.”

That’s how it was when we were younger. I grew up with immigrant, Oriental parents, where although things may have seemed normal, they really weren’t. But to a child, I didn’t know. I believed every family dealt with the same things, like eating rice with every meal. We had a rice cooker on the counter. I thought that was normal in every household in America. That was until I started hanging out with people with different backgrounds, like white people. My white friends were amazed every time I asked them where their rice cooker was. And every so often, they would humor me and tell me it was by the Oriental rug.

But getting back to my parents…..

It’s amazing, all the kids are grown up, and I still don’t get to be responsible, nor do I get treated like a baby. But I still get hand-me-downs. Instead of clothes though, it’s parental advice. “Jason, your father and I were telling your older brother (Rich) to save money. You should do the same.”

My two brothers get to be responsible and treated like a baby, respectively. It’s probably because Rich has a wife and two kids. So the responsibility comes with the territory. But Ron, who’s in college now, still gets treated like a baby. It’s almost as if my mother doesn’t want to let go of her last child yet. She’s always saying, “Human beings are not like technology. You don’t just rush things.” I never understood what she meant until I dissected the statement. And now I agree with her, because if human beings were like technology, a baby would be born with a cordless umbilical cord.

My younger brother doesn’t get pampered or anything, I mean he is potty trained and all; rather he gets treated like a baby in other ways. Friends of my mother would ask about the kids.

“How is the youngest doing in college?” “He’s just great,” my mother would say. “How old is he now?” “He’s 2,400 months,” my mother would continue.

Isn’t it time to let go? I can’t stand it when people, mothers especially, do this. Who are they to push math problems onto you?

I have a friend who recently had a child. I asked her how old her baby is and she replied, “She’s 18 months.” Now I’m thinking, 12 months is one years old, so 18 months must be, 1 1/2 years old. Why can’t she just say that instead of 18 months?

If she asked me how long it took to drive to her house, I wouldn’t respond with, “It took 168 minutes.”

People who do this, especially women, want to justify algebra teachers’ reasoning when they say, “There will be instances in your adult life when you need to form an equation that begins with X equals.”

So by having a friend like this, the equation looks similar to: X = 18/12, X = 3/2 or X = 1 1/2. That’s what my life has come to when dealing with this woman, X X X X X X. And now that I think about it, if I ever married this woman, she would very quickly be… my ex. But knowing her, having flunked out of high-school, she wouldn’t know what X equaled.

With nothing changing in my two brothers’ lives, why should anything change in mine? This way of thinking I have adopted from being raised by my family puts me in very awkward situations. I just can’t live my life; grocery shopping, banking, doing laundry, etc. I have to put up with people looking at me funny, wondering how out-of-whack stories appear in my brain.

This leads to people now approaching me asking “Jason, where do you get the ideas from when you write humor?” And I tell them, from my family. But that’s not all. So, I will go through a typical day of my simple, yet fulfilling lifestyle. This, in order for me to make it through the bank in under one minute, because who knows, I may be robbing it.

First of all, I write 15-20 jokes every morning. Then, later that day I look at them again and determine which are still funny. I note them, then later that night I look again and determine which are still funny. People go through different moods and some may be less humorous as the caffeine or drugs sink in (so if you aren’t laughing at this, please read again hours later, or take more drugs).

Then, if I still laugh at one, I keep it, and the others I rewrite or put aside for another day. A comedian once told me, “Write down every idea that comes to mind because you never know.” He was right, when I get strapped for jokes, I open up my folder, usually filled with old wrinkled bar napkins, back of business cards, and matchbooks with lines that read, “midget, urinal, threesome.” Stuff like that. When I see that, something sparks my insane mind and jokes surface from ideas written in the 80’s. The only problem is, being old ideas, I’m forced to talk about Reaganomics and Bebe Buell. After that, I sit through an hour of yoga and meditation, followed by a rigorous exorcism to rid the many voices from my head. So you see, I’m actually really quite normal.

So that’s it. The entire process. What people think is embarrassing, to me it’s my life. Thanks mom and dad.

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Drinking soda may cause one to gain weight but some of our drinking water can kill us.

Some things sure seem backwards.

Shouldn’t a number two pencil really be the number one pencil? It seems the most requested pencil of all teachers should step up to its earned position. But perhaps my perception is incorrect.

If you think it’s butter but it’s not, throw it away!

We have 911 to call in case of an emergency. I believe we should have 711, just in case we’re feeling down and need someone to talk to. Perhaps 711 can offer information so we won’t ever need to use 911.

It would be a nice gesture if 711 offered home service. They could come and hold your hand and keep you from having a twit-fit or provoking a terrorist attack. It would obviously depend on each person and each specific problem.

Have I mentioned I have a thirteen year-old daughter? The only reason I bring this up is because, after another year of careful reasoning, I’ve come to the conclusion that a lobotomy is in order, though I’m not sure if it should be for my daughter or for myself. My energy sources are so drained that if I were to stick my finger in an electrical outlet, it would just make me normal again.

I had plans on being a ‘cool’ mom. I now hope she never sees me naked because I do not want to see the look of youthful disgust in her eyes. Also, If she thinks I’m going to continue to make her bed for her, she’s got another think coming. I’m so easy to get along with but I’m about to pull an all out and out twit-fit that will place all rebellious teenagers in the fetal position again.

Other annoyances include moments when my sciatic nerve goes out. Oh, some call it the sciatic nerve. I call it my psychotic nerve. Same thing. When it goes, I go and pretty soon the whole family is gone.

Which brings me to wonder, if I am made in the image of God does that mean God is frazzled at times? Probably not. I bet God never had a kink in his hip or felt the need to take a Xanax to ward off an anxiety attack. But I suppose the Creator needs to keep it together in order to keep up with all of us. Can you imagine having over six billion kids to be responsible for?

I only have one and I’m in dire need of 711 now. Either that or soon I will strap myself in a fashionable, white straight jacket and hop to the nearest mental facility. And I don’t want drugs. Oh no. If I am to have a breakdown, everyone is going to hear and experience it. We’re in this together and if I’m going down, you’re going to watch.

Perhaps, afterwards, I will be able to enjoy a good nap.

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