Ann Romney, Do You Really Love Us Women?

You love us? Really? All of us?

Even the poor, the unmarried, the homosexual, the oversexed, and the overworked? Do you love the women who get their birth control at Planned Parenthood?

Or the women who are seeing to it that women can have a safe abortion if they’ve been raped, “legitimately” or not? By the way, Ann, even though it is now a moot point, since your party’s platform is ‘NO ABORTIONS EVEN IN THE CASE OF RAPE OR INCEST’, and you have to go along with what Big Brother, I mean, the party says, I’m curious to know, in your eyes, what is a legitimate rape? Does the assailant have a knife? A gun? A fist? Is he a color? An uncle? A lawmaker? Just curious.

Do you still love me Ann?

Even though I want to make sure that ALL women have safe access to abortions and OB/GYN visits without invasive ultrasounds? The only trans-vaginal wand that is going inside of me is the one that got me pregnant in the first place. I mean a penis, Ann, in case you didn’t catch that.

Speaking of, Ann, Do you love the women that have sex out of wedlock? I have had a lot of that sex, probably more than your female constituents. Of course, I have my standards. I personally try to stay away from any guy involved in a con (Neo-con, Def-con, Comic-con). You tend to get con-ned out of a good time. Ann, do you love women who like to take control of their sexuality? Ones that like to have a good time in bed? Because I imagine a lot of the women in your party shut their eyes and pray for the deed to be over, thinking of it as God’s duty. I too, mention God a lot when I have sex, but in an entirely different context.

Where’s the love, Ann, are we still good?

Ann, what about all the not “real” marriages you hinted at? Do you love those women too? For instance, my friend Jamie – she is married to a great woman and they have a wonderful marriage. I dare say they spend more time together than you and Mitt do.

What is a ‘real’ marriage? Is it two God fearing Christians? Stitch me a sampler, cause I need to see what you’re getting at exactly. I was under the impression that America was built of differences and that we embraced those differences. That the American dream was that you could make your own reality. But if there is a REAL marriage, then please show us because there are a lot of “Real Housewives” masquerading about and taking up some prime time Bravo TV space who need to be 86ed.

Still love me?

Ann, do you love Michelle Obama? She seemed to mop the floor with you. While you play-acted at struggling through out life, she connected with the idea. While you came off like a crazed game show hostess, bestowing gym equipment upon a paraplegic, Michelle seemed like she understood the sobering realities that America faces. I think she loves us anyway. While you talk about loving women, You, Your husband, and Your Party legislate against us.

I don’t think you love us after all. Not one bit.

Storming The Bastille

It was recently July 14th, so I said to a guy, “Happy Bastille Day”! He sort of rolled his eyes and churlishly mumbled. “The fuck do I care about Bastille day? And why the fuck do you? Why should we care in the US about some dumb French holiday?”

All rudeness aside, I decided to explain it to him. I love talking to churlish brick walls. I’m like a perky, blond Sisyphus.

“Well,  you see. You should maybe have a little interest in what was going on leading up to Bastille Day. Let me give you the very broad strokes.

Back in France at the time, they were having a lot of natural disasters. Whole towns had been wiped out by storms. Many people had lost their homes. Crops had been decimated. That meant there was very little in the way of food. And bread prices went through the roof. People were homeless and starving…

Anything? Any light bulbs overhead?No?

Meanwhile, France’s national debt was atrocious. France had been overseas fighting in the American Revolutionary War. It had been a long, drawn out conflict and many of the French citizens were tired of it and wanted to know why their country was fighting in a war they had no business being a part of.

Now are any bells going off? No? Stay with me. We’ll have snacks soon.

Well, also at the time, the middle class had been taxed so much that it had become a poor class. The nobility and clergy were exempt from this tax. A financial advisor to King Louis made a suggestion that a new tax be made to include the nobility which comprised the top percentage of the country. Well, the nobility went bitchcakes and refused. The financial advisor was fired. The poor at this point, were fed up and deicded that they were going to storm Wall Street. I’m sorry, I mean The Bastille. 

Sound familiar?

France didn’t even have the added bonus of Twitter back then for their revolution. All they had was Madame Defarge and her knitting needles. I bet it took a long god damned time for a retweet. I should probably tell you know that was a Charles Dickens joke. He was a writer. Pretty popular. He wrote serials? Kinda the Dick Wolf of his day? Dick Wolf. He was a TV producer. TV. It was the Facebook of it’s day?

So, yeah, No. This has nothing to do with our country. History never repeats itself and you should not concern yourself with other countries and their holidays or traditions. Just keep ignoring what is happening and keep downloading remixes and playing Call of Duty. 

You had ear buds in the whole time, didn’t you?”

I’m against the death penalty but maybe for certain circumstances we could bring back the guillotine?

 

Jan Brewer: Witchy Woman

I’m back, bitches!

What, you don’t believe in reincarnation? Oh, you’ll vote for a presidential candidate who believes in magic underwear, but you don’t believe that I can come back in a different form? Well, guess again. I don’t need the Brothers Grimm to tell my story anymore. I have the mainstream media telling my crazy antics everyday. Or the ‘lame stream’ media. I got that one from that ho, Sarah Palin. I love that bitch. She cracks me up.

I know what you’re thinking. I look nothing like Charlize Theron. Who does? She is all CGI. By the way, thanks for that, Universal. Perfect casting. I’ve always seen myself as the fairest of them all and finally you made a movie where Snow White wasn’t such hot stuff. I mean, am I supposed to be threatened by that Twilight twerp? Puhleeze. I sent the Huntsman out after her just for shits and giggles.

So yeah, I’m not exactly a looker these days. Some say withered troll, but that would be inaccurate. (You’re thinking of Rumplestiltskin). I could blame it on the arid Arizona climate, but truthfully, I get my gorgeous looks from other people’s unhappiness and lately Congress and the Supreme Court are being a big fucking pain in my ass.

In the olden days, I could just exile a bunch of dwarves to the forest and hope the wolves would eat them. Now I have to try to pass laws so that the little people, sorry, poor brown immigrants, stay on their side of the fence. And people have the nerve to say I’m a witch? First of all, it’s Witch with a capital ‘W’.  Or just “W”. I borrowed that. And second of all, I’m just keeping the Kingdom safe! It’s for your own good. Those people take our jobs and our babies. They fuck up our lawns and spit in our food! You know those people have diseases and they cast spells, right? Not as good as my book of spells. I call it government red tape. It costs lots of money and eats up lots of time. It’s the dungeon of democracy.

I’ve been noticing the crow’s feet really beginning to spread the past few weeks with all this Obamacare nonsense. I’ve been doing everything I can to put a stop to health care. Starting with the Gays. If there’s one thing I can’t stand is happy people, and the Gay people have happy right there in their name. The nerve! And now they want to have their “partners” be covered in their health plan? Well, I immediately concocted a 500-page potion that would put an end to this practice. No unmarried partners will have health coverage. Especially not the happiest ones. No one is going to be happy if I’m not! Ugh, I can feel my pruny face shrivel just thinking about it! The bill keeps getting overturned but that won’t stop me. I will find a way. Their love for each other makes my hate stronger. And my strength makes my will greater. My evil will prevail! It has to. I can’t deal with having this leatherface for very much longer.

If we are going to force health care on everyone then there is a simple remedy I think both Republicans and Democrats can agree on. Everyone knows an apple a day keeps the doctor away. Apples. Delicious apples. Yes, I know I’m reaching into my old bag of tricks here, but when pressed up against a wall, a sorceress goes to her best. Phew. I’m already starting to feel younger. Sans Botox! Now if we can just start chopping down the trees and piping in the oil, I’ll look airbrushed in no time.

I’ve got all the time in the world, bitches. Insert witchy cackle here.

Packing My Bags For Canada

Goddamned Obama. Goddamned Supreme Court!

Who do they think they are forcing me to have health care when I don’t want it? That’s it. I’m packing my bags and moving to Canada. I’m really doing it this time too. I know I’ve said I would do it before, like when they gave the gay people rights.

But I have had it up to here! Here is about as high as 12 stacked cans of Schlitz beer and a couple of Spam cans on top. But you get the idea. I think some body needs to sit ole Barkacki down and have a little talk with him and tell him that America ain’t a socialism regime like the one he came from. (ED: Hawaii is one of the 50 states).

We don’t want the government telling us that we gotta go to the hospital if we, say, attach a set of jumper cables to our nipples and turn on the ignition just to see what happens. That’s our own goddamn business! And now the women are gonna be wanting check ups every damn time they miss a period or something happens down there.

That’s why I’m moving to Canada. They aren’t a crazy socialist country like Obama is trying to turn the U.S. of A into. (ED: They are far more socialist than we are). First of all, look at their lawmen. They still ride horses and carry guns, the way it should be. If our cops still acted like goddamned cowboys instead of sitting in donut shops all day long, you think kids would be eating bath salts and gnawing each other’s faces? No! They’d see those Mountie red jackets and those horses and they’d show some respect!

Secondly, they drink beer there. Noneathem froufroutini stuff you see on the cable shows. They drink beer and lots of beer, like the real people here do. You like to get your beer on here and people whine at you that you got a problem. “Stop hitting people,” they jaw at you. “Don’t drive when you’re like that,” “You can’t go to work when you drink beer in the morning,” “You’re not supposed to operate a forklift after having so many beers.” SO much jawing! In Canada, that’s just called enjoying your beer! It’s a national beverage that is made to be enjoyed. Amirite? (ED: You are not right. All the above is called alcoholism in Canada, too.)

Canada is pretty awesome. They won’t force their socialized medicine down my throat. (ED: Canada has a socialized health care system. This is getting tiring.) And I won’t have to pay for someone elses medicine either. If someone’s gonna die, that’s their business. Amirite? Plus in Canada, they’ve got lots of maple syrup if I want pancakes and I do love me some pancakes. And at least in Canada, they speak ENGLISH! (ED: … and French. Oh boy.)

Man, I just HATE America right now. It’s such a mess. And it’s all Obama’s fault! That’s why I’m moving to Canada. But I’ll tell you what. If Romney wins in November? I might come back. He could repeal this Obamacare business and come up with a real healthcare plan. You can bet on that. (ED: We give up).

Digging For Gold

Summer is here and I need to get the air conditioning on my ’98 VW fixed. I think it is time this Class ‘A’ gold digger took a trip to a discount store to get a new pair of heels. It’s hunting season! You see, I’ve been accused of being a gold digger, but I’m not sure I’m doing it right. Being a gold digger isn’t easy. Once you decide to not work and let men do all the work, well that takes a lot of work. Yes, it’s easier if you’re a hottie like me, but it still requires skill.

I’m not saying my little gold shovel hasn’t left a trail of hearts and a bursting bank account. I do have tens of dollars in profit. I just think there might be room for improvement.

My UK boyfriend was a marvelous find. I moved to London to spend all his hard-earned cash. We lived in splendor above a partially condemned Camden pub, walking miles in the knee-high rain (He, I mean we, have a thing against cabs and the Tube). He would cook for me every night: buttered bread and frozen breaded fish with rice. Or bread. We would give my gluten allergies the middle finger and laugh as my throat closed up. Some days he took me to dinner at the Sainsbury grocery market and let me pick out anything I wanted from the two day-old bargain bin. I kept telling myself not to concern myself with trivial things like his character, or love, after all, I was living such a lavish lifestyle. It’s what is in his wallet that counts. Bling, bling.

I forced one previous boyfriend to get a job when I was laid off. He was used to keeping my couch warm when he wasn’t coming up with important lyrics for indie rock songs. But I meant a job that paid money. This gold digger wanted some soy milk in her cereal. He picked up a couple days work doing some substitute teaching at Fairfax High, and he was cool with it because it happened to be where Anthony Kiedis of the Red Hot Chili Peppers went to school. On day two, he came home and curtly announced he would not be going back since he had been shoved inside a locker. Nobody puts Baby in a locker! That’s okay, I just took my little ATM machine to the place where he got most of his money — his parents! They made us a delicious dinner, Jell-O ambrosia and all, and even slipped him a couple twenties. Baby proudly announced that meant we could save the Hamburger Helper he had bought for a rainy day. I didn’t even know they still made Hamburger Helper! You keep your trim looking like mine and you get men treating you to the finer things in life.

Of course sometimes being a gold digger has its drawbacks. You have to put your shallowness aside for the sake of the Benjamins, because not all rich men are handsome. In the case of the famous comedian, it was doubly true. But he was kinda funny! And he thought I was funny too, which helped. This comic did well for himself and landed several roles in blockbuster films. He had so much money in the bank that I didn’t mind it when he forgot his wallet every time I picked him up and we went out for dinner. Newly rich and famous men have a lot on their minds and can’t be bothered to remember every little thing! Honestly, I was just thrilled for him and I knew that after supporting him for months, he would repay me by sticking by me in the future. It would all even out in the end, for we would be together forever, and ever, and ever. He probably still thinks about me.

As the temperature rises and I soak through my clothes every time I run a quick errand, I realize I need to work harder so I don’t have to work at all! I’ve perused in the Learning Annex syllabus for gold digger classes. Nothing. I’ve spent several weekends hanging out in midscale hotel bars hoping some seasoned digger would take me under her wing and give me some pointers on how to score a Sugar Daddy. I’d love to go to Paris! Or eat dinner this week! The bar was also a bust. Hotel bartenders have a different name than gold digger, which is not flattering. Like they aren’t shaking it for tips. I guess I will have to keep looking for my GD guru. If only Dr. Phil or Oprah knew more on the subject. I bet they could really help. Kanye?

Be A Man, Or Be Jon Hamm

Mad Men’s Don Draper is a bad husband. He constantly cheats. He cheats on the women he cheats with. He drinks his meals and not in a Jamba Juice immunity boost kind of way, but a Bushmills for breakfast way. He will slap his woman around. He is a workaholic. He’s not even a good workaholic – he often leaves in the middle of the workday to go drink or take his wife or mistress somewhere. He is cranky, moody, and cantankerous. He is pretty much crap.

But he looks like Jon Hamm.

So he can get away with pretty much anything. You men, unless you look like Jon Hamm or you are Jon Hamm, cannot. I don’t know how I can be clearer about this. If you are not Jon Hamm, you need to be better. It is sad that Don Draper, a fictionalized and deeply flawed, character from the sexist 60s, is more of a man than most men I’ve met today. Men, you’re never going to look like Jon Hamm. But you can do things to possibly improve. Women today are so starved for the very basic forms of decency in dating that they have lionized a character in Draper. They have put him on a pedestal and would date him in a heart beat, despite his despicable qualities. Even though you will never be Jon Hamm, you can have a leg up here. I don’t condone acting like Don Draper. But I do suggest acting like a man.

First of all, Don Draper has a job. I am not belittling the many people out of work today because of the economy. But I am belittling the “maybe I will be a DJ or a maybe I will become a tattoo artist or perhaps a club promoter but I can’t think of having a place to live or a girlfriend or a family until I’m at least 55 or 65 until my career takes off but right now I just gotta see where life takes me like maybe Ibiza or Portland?” This ‘Dude’ will meet his maker by taking a bad hit of Ketamine at a rave, or perhaps fall out a tree he is trying to save. Or maybe he will choke on his own vomit after too many Zima and cokes while nodding to dubsteb at Winter Music Conference. At any rate, that is where life will take him.

Style. Pull up your goddamned pants OR go up a size. Maybe eight sizes. Jeggings for men? Seriously. At some point the Garanimals and hyphy crunk look is not flattering. I love rock-n-roll too, but I am starting to realize that no matter how sexy that I am, that I don’t want to be like grandma Cher in the weird see-through onesie thong cat suit. Shudder. Stop with the fake Amish outfits and handlebar mustaches unless, of course, you have been cast in a Steampunk remake of the movie “Witness”. Stop wearing Japanese cosplay sweatshirts with Pac Man on them if you are actually old enough that you grew up playing Atari. Stop dressing like a child molester in the back of a black van. And for Krishna’s sake STOP DRESSING LIKE BON IVER! Own a suit, maybe a Tuxedo, and definitely a pair of dress shoes. You don’t have to wear them everyday but there will be occasions you may need them. This doesn’t make you any less punk or rock and roll. It doesn’t make you part of the ‘establishment’. It makes you a grown up man.

Treat women with respect. You don’t have to marry a woman just because you are kind to her – it’s not a contract, it’s just humane. Kindness isn’t a form of AIDS. Being good is a sign of leadership. Being emotionally available is a sign of strength. Get over your own fears and bullshit. Hey, try therapy! You might find that you can be a better person. Yes, we know that James Bond never went to therapy, but you will never be able to hang from a cliff by one arm either, so if you aren’t strong enough to do that, maybe you aren’t strong enough to navigate the dating scene without a little help from a counselor. Don Draper may not be the best example here. Okay, he is a horrible example, but let’s just say that he never tried to live off a woman, he never picked up his cell phone during dinner, and he NEVER answered a text in the middle of sex.

I really don’t recommend the last one if you want to call yourself a man. Unless, of course, you are trying to draw attention away from your, ahem, short comings.

If that is the case, I suggest you work twice as hard.

Get Up, Stand Up, Stand Up For The Stripes

We stand to sing our national anthem because it is THE LAW (Ed: it is not a law). Standing for our anthem is tradition and it is to honor our flag and our country. We put our hand over our heart and it is a contract, just like putting our hand on a stack of Bibles that you will kill for your country (Ed: This is not legally binding or true). Like for instancestance, at this baseball game, we open the game with our anthem. If we play another country, sometimes we will let them play theirs, but we don’t really like it.

We are proud of our country because we live here. Because we made this country what it was, I mean is. Well, we didn’t make it. Our forefathers did. We do very little. We are sitting on our ass now watching grown men trying to hit a ball with a stick. Our forefathers would be appalled. They would hate us. If we were critical thinkers we would admit to ourselves that we would hate them. They had slaves and probably beat their wives. But we are PROUD of them because they made America and there is NOTHING WRONG WITH AMERICA SO DON’T SASS ME. Our troops fight so you can read this right now! You lazy piece of generation nothing!

But this isn’t about your generation, you egomanwhatever. This is about tradition.

We stand during the seventh inning because it is tradition. It is called the seventh inning stretch! It’s a chance to stretch your legs and walk forty feet to get in line and then spend your week’s wages on enough pork guts to shove into your belly that you get the meat sweats. If that doesn’t land you in the toilets, then…

Then we sing a fun song called “Take Me Out To The Ball Game.” Why? Quit questioning authority and do it! All right I will tell you. It’s because it’s tradition and it honors our flag and our country and God wants us to honor peanuts and cracker jacks, as it says to in our Constitution. “Life, liberty and the pursuit of crackerjacks” (Ed: That isn’t in the Constitution).

There may be a separation of church and state, but there is no separation of ballpark and state. Thank GOD! Which is why we now sing “God Bless America” during the seventh inning too. You HAVE to stand for that. Well, you don’t have to. However, my more American than anyone in this country Hispanic friend sitting behind us will tell you, “You’re not from America if you don’t stand for our national anthem” (Ed: “God Bless America” isn’t our national anthem).

Why do we sing it? Because it’s tradition! All the way since 9/11 when George Bush and his cabinet decided who was American and who was not (Ed: they tried to). Then our ballparks decided we needed more tradition to prove this. And we all decided that the more tradition there was, the more we could make others feel bad if they weren’t being American enough. So everyone stands so they don’t get yelled at. So we sing it to remind ourselves of our amber waves of Monsanto genetically modified grain and our radioactive and oil slicked seas that are white with foam. You know, like a rabid dog. Did I mention that it’s a song about God? It has God in the title! So. Yeah, you gotta believe in God too, or you’re not a good American. But that goes without saying!

As a spectator, this is clearly not enough standing. Sure, there’s the wave, but that only comes around every 78 seconds or so, depending on the drunk reggaetron loving jackass, who keeps trying to start it.

No, there are so many more songs that are stand-upable that could be entered into our ballgame viewing pleasure. Why not have a third inning rendition of “American Pie”? It would be a good time for the ballpark to sell some good ole apple pie. Or how about “American Girl” or “American Woman”! It could be well timed with the hooters girls who shoot the t-shirt cannons during the 8th inning! And what about songs about freedom? Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose. So how about some “Bobby McGee” during pitching changes? Or “Free Bird”? We could flip the bird to the other team when they come out onto the field! Heck I don’t care, what song gets you up out of your seat. I just want Tradition and Reverence, Singing and Standing.

Oh, but if you’re rooting for the out of town team, Do NOT stand so close to me. Wish there was a song for that.

 

 

 

Follow Ali MacLean on Twitter: www.twitter.com/aliontheair

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?