I Love Black People

I am not a racist. I have black people in my family. My aunt is married to a black man and he was invited to my sister’s wedding. Yes, I know that I am not my sister, but I would totally invite him to my wedding.

A lot of times black people just assume that I am racist. One reason is the way I look. I am pale white with blue eyes and flaxen blonde hair. I’m a Nellie Olsen looking motherfucker. If it were Prairie times, I have slave-owner written all over me. The second reason is I’m from Boston, apparently the racist capital of America. Forget the Bible belt, if you mention you’re from Boston and have a last name starting with a Celtic prefix, you might as well be wearing a hood. I try to tell people I come from the Kennedy part of Boston, not the Marky Mark part of Boston, but that just seems to make things worse.

I have black friends. I have a black director and black co-stars. I have even dined with the esteemed Baratunde Thurston, author of How To Be Black. We sat at the W Hotel’s Spike Lee table! I realize I’m name-dropping black people names and maybe that’s just desperate ways to get you to think that I’m not racist. Here are some more: My favorite indie actor is Don Cheadle. My favorite baseball player is David ‘Big Papi ‘ Ortiz. My favorite basketball player is Paul Pierce. My favorite football player was Asante Samuel until he defected to the Eagles. My favorite teacher could have been black if my University had hired any. That one’s not on me.

I don’t know how much more I can make it clear to you that I’m not racist. I like black people as much as I could like ANY human being. I mean I’m not much of a people person in general. As far as people go, some of the black ones I’ve met have been pretty great. I feel like maybe all this groveling is maybe sounding a bit racist but whatever I can do to convince you. You see, the other night I flinched.

I was booked on a performance with four other amazing performers at Comedy Central. Another performer that night was a wonderful and hilarious gentleman, an African American who did a piece on how white women are crazy, especially the ones he dated, and sometimes a little racist.

I, personally, had a bitchy tidal wave of a week filled with a disappointing dickbag, a hit-and-run car smash up, and pet cancer. I had to pull deep inside my good ole Scot stoicism that solders a steely shield and holds in the tears that come out every 200 years, like Brigadoon. That rock hard badassery got me through the show and helped me kick some ass.

In the swirl of the after party, I finally had a second to reflect on my horrible week and I got lost in my head for a moment. I felt a tap on my shoulder and I hunched my shoulders a bit. I turned around and saw it was the black guy from my show. Oh no! Not the black guy. Anybody but the black guy! He’s gonna think I’m racist and that I flinched because he is black. Sure enough…

“Oh sorry, I didn’t mean to touch you…”

I could have told him I didn’t know that it was him. Or that he had startled me. Or that my week had been like a piñata stuffed with human waste that had burst everywhere. I could have told him that.

But instead I made it worse:

“I have a bad shoulder.”

“You have a bad shoulder? Oh, it’s like THAT. That’s a new one. I’ve got to write that one down.”

“No really! I fell hiking!”

The fact was I did have a bad shoulder. I am a clumsy fool. But I’m no racist.

I asked him if I could give him a hug. He begrudgingly agreed. I took a running start and gave him a massive bear hug. It lasted so long that most people around us began to get uncomfortable. I think I would have given him a blowjob if it would sort out race relations. Hell, I think I would have given white guilt head to anyone in Affirmative Action at that moment just to smooth things out. For someone who doesn’t like most people, I sure do want everyone to get along.

You know what this means. I’m definitely going to have to vote for Obama again. That should prove to you that I’m not racist. I do love having a black president. I just really wish he wasn’t a Muslim.

Are You Cat Mom Enough?

The times, they are a changing. The traditional family is no longer so traditional. Marriage is being fought over on an international level, and yet it seems fewer and fewer people want to enter into that contract.

Many women find that while having a healthy career, they don’t have time for a baby or don’t want a baby. Or perhaps their dating pool is genetically inferior. Or missing altogether. But women can always make room in their hearts for a cat baby!

 

Kittens are so cute! Who doesn’t like a kitten? If YouTube and the Internet is any proof, the WHOLE DAMN WORLD loves kittens. So why all the hate when kittens become cats…and they happen to live with women? There is a disturbing misogyny out there that permeates our society: why is a woman that has a cat baby weird, undesirable, or unfit to be wed? That woman you hate on is just a single mom!

Somehow being overly attached to a human baby you have is fine. Even a dog fetish seems acceptable. Nine out of ten times if someone is pushing a baby carriage through the streets of Los Angeles, you can bet there is a dog in it. In today’s society you can bring your baby or your dog to parties, games, movies, malls, even to restaurants. It’s called attachment parenting. However, if you brought your cat? You’re the eccentric, weird cat lady with issues. Society should think long and hard about the idea of bringing your baby everywhere. Mommy and me yoga classes? How unrelaxing.

Attachment parenting for a newborn kitten is an exception and should be practiced. I’m a proud cat mom. True, my kitten did not come from my loins, but that doesn’t make her any less loved. Adopted babies belong in a family just as much as birthed babies. And I won’t have anyone slight her for it.

I raised a colicky kitten. She cried and cried. I let her feed as much as she wanted, whenever she wanted. She shared my bed and still does. I try to teach her to use her own bed, but she just loves to sneak in with me and she’s just so sweet and cute. I can’t say no to her. It’s hard to say no to your baby!

People may talk about me or tell me I’m not doing my cat any favors. They say I’m raising her to be a monster. They say ‘what you permit you promote’. Well they aren’t raising her. It’s not their cat baby, so they can butt out!

My boyfriend does get annoyed sometimes, but he just has to deal with cat baby and me. She has been around longer, after all. And what happens if he doesn’t want to deal with it? Well, there are more men where he came from. And what if those men don’t want to deal with my baby, either? Well, I’ve been raising my life partner from the cradle. The cat’s cradle, if you will. So I’m covered any way you look at it.

Photo credit: Michael Rababy

Say Yes To My Dress

Hi, Babe!

Don’t hang up! Look I know we’re in a big fight right now and you need time to cool off, but I wanted to run something by you.

So I went and did a little shopping today. Yes, I know I don’t need to be out spending money I don’t have. Ugh, can we not start this whole thing again? Listen! I was out with Kristen and Sarah and we had brunch and some mimosas and then we switched to something a little harder, which you can’t really blame me for since I’ve had a hard week. You know why. You haven’t made it any easier, you know. Ok, I’m counting to ten. I wasn’t even going to bring that up. I didn’t call to fight. I called for a really, really, really good reason. Okay. So, I know we are in a fight but hear me out. I found a really amazing dress!

This dress isn’t just a regular dress. It’s…super fancy. It fits so amazingly. Like it was made for me and it’s haute couture. Which kind of means it is made for you. But anyways, it’s a Vivienne Westwood. Yeah, the ‘crazy looking lady’ on the book on my coffee table. Not true! Her dresses aren’t <em>weird</em>, they’re…avant-garde. That’s what haute couture IS. I’m not going to argue with you about what fashion is, okay? You duct tape your jacket together. Her dresses are very fancy and very special and very hard to come by. You can’t just pop into Target or the mall and pick up a Westwood. But I found one. And it FIT! It fit like a dream. Aaaand it was marked down. Like CRAZY marked down.

I know I haven’t paid my car insurance, but Kristen was driving today and she totally said she can drive me around if I need to go anywhere for the next few weeks. Plus, I have my emergency earthquake kit stocked with cans of tuna and crackers and stuff. What? Yeah, I bought the dress. Hmm? How does what relate to you? Weeeelll. It’s sort of a white dress. It’s a couture, white, Westwood, damask silk, floor-length gown. Yes, it sounds like it’s a wedding dress. I suppose it IS a wedding dress.

Hear me out. I know we aren’t engaged. We aren’t even speaking. But the dress is perfect and makes me look super skinny! I look eight times more gorgeous in it, if that is even possible. And it’s so classic and timeless. It could be any era or any location. You want a beach wedding? Perfect. Black-tie at the Plaza? Done. Great Gatsby style on a rolling lawn? The bees knees! We can plan any décor around this perfect, perfect dress and I will look gorgeous. So you see why I couldn’t pass it up.

Plus I saved us a TON of money. Some wedding dresses cost like, five grand. And I got this one for practically nothing. Sure, I wasn’t expecting to spend the money right now, but the opportunity came up and I couldn’t pass up such a great deal. Isn’t it a good example of how economical I am? I can help manage our money. I mean, your money. I spent all of mine on the dress. But it was sooo worth it. When you see it on me when we finally make up, you will totally agree.

Don’t hang up! Look, I could care less right now if you want to marry me and be with me forever. But you have to marry this dress. It’s fucking gorgeous. Also, I look gorgeous in it and I deserve to be seen in it! Everyone will be so jealous. My friends will be jealous I have such a pretty dress and your friends will be jealous that you have such a pretty wife – and really, isn’t that what weddings are all about? I won’t take no for an answer. It would be a crime against fashion. You would be murdering the existence of my beautiful pale skin brushing up against the soft silky geniused work of the nimble fingers of Ms. Westwood. I don’t think you want that blood on your hands. Do you? So say yes to the dress.

Hello?