Wendy, high school junior.
(Warning: Using this monologue without permission is illegal, as is reproducing it on a website or in print in any way.)
When I was ten, my parents decided it was time to have "the talk." Actually, my mom decided and sort of ambushed my dad into it. I came down for breakfast on Sunday morning and my mom announced we were all going to have breakfast together. This was unusual since my mom usually had a slice of toast and a vitamin and my dad had coffee and cigarettes. As far as I knew, I was the only one who ever had "breakfast" in that house. When I sat down, my mom said "We need to talk about the birds and the bees." She’s a euphemistic woman. My dad is more direct. He said, "Noreen, if we’re going to talk about it, we’re going to call it sex." I find that you can never burst into flames when you most need to. My mom was going on, euphemistically, and my dad was correcting her. "Wendy, men have a 'boilerplate', and women have a persimmon." He didn’t really say "boilerplate" and "persimmon" but you get the idea. My mom gets hung up on details. For some reason, she wanted to make absolutely sure I knew exactly what it took to make a baby. She kept repeating “The "squib" goes into the "mizzenmast." The "squib" goes into the "mizzenmast." The "squib" goes into the "mizzenmast." She said it 18 times. By the 19th time, I snapped. "I GOT the 'mizzenmast'!" And I ran out of the room, mortified. That was the last time anyone ever talked about "waffle irons" in my house again!