How Not to Be a Jackass Maid of Honor or Bridesmaid

I don’t talk weddings often, God knows there’s plenty of stuff out there about weddings. I did post the review of my wedding photographer that I wasn’t allowed to put on Yelp, as well as the spoiler alert on life after your wedding. Hell, one time I even took a serious turn (shudder), and wrote my 5 Things Every New Husband Should Know article. I was on my 4th glass of merlot when that hit, I promise I won’t get serious too often.

But I feel compelled to talk about Maid of Honors and bridesmaids because my lovely Maid of Honor was recently featured in Brides.com’s article Maid of Honor Horror Stories; my story is the first one from “Sandra,” they changed my name. I honestly didn’t care if they used both of our real names, but Brides.com is clearly more classy than I.

Unfortunately, these types of stories are way too common. It’s the bride’s big day, and it is overshadowed by some narcissistic asshole Maid of Honor or bridesmaid (or sometimes even mother of the bride/groom) who seems to forget that the day is in no way about her. At all. No matter what. Ever.

So here it is ladies, how not to be a jackass Maid of Honor or Bridesmaid on her wedding day:

1. The word “I” (or any possessive noun) should not leave your mouth, unless “you” is a few words behind it, and the in-between words are positive. Example:

Do: I am so happy that you are finally having your beautiful day.
Don’t: I hooked up with your fiance’s father last night, so things are going to be super awkward today. Just an FYI.

2. No matter what’s going on that day, all the bride needs to be informed of are pertinent, positive things related to getting her down the aisle. I don’t care if you woke up the morning of the wedding and found out that your boyfriend was murdered by a gang of Nazi ninjas. In that scenario, you have two options:

a. Woman up, shut up, and carry on with the day as if everything is fine. Do not, I repeat, DO NOT, utter a word about finding your boyfriend laying in bed with a katana still sticking out of his chest to the bride. She does not need to hear anything about it until she gets back from her honeymoon.

b. If you can’t carry on with the day as if everything is fine (and seriously, the only scenario where that is even acceptable is one comparable to finding your impaled boyfriend in bed), you quietly take aside the Maid of Honor, another bridesmaid, the mother of the bride, or the wedding planner, let them know that you have to deal with your murdered boyfriend and cannot pull yourself together, and then decide on the best course of action. DO NOT burden the bride with your drama, it is her day and she doesn’t need to deal with your shit. Period.

3. Don’t be a jealous dick. Don’t let your jealousy over wanting your own big day get in the way of her big day. Know that your day is coming, maybe, if you learn how to not act like a selfish dick. Even then, your big day is coming, but chances are good that you will marry another dick, like yourself. Dick begets dick. So make everyone happy and just stop being a dick.

4. Be nice to the rest of the wedding party, no matter how much you dislike/are annoyed by/are sick of any of them. My MOH had to be separated from one of my bridesmaids because she was being a downright bitch to her. And my bridesmaid, who any other day of the week would have told my MOH exactly where she could stick her bitchy comments, politely mentioned it to my mom, who wisely devised a way to keep the two separate. But seriously? Are we in fucking kindergarten? Be an adult, you classless asshole.

5. Know that, no matter how much you are making the day about yourself and pissing off the bride, she’s probably not going to tell you, so don’t take her silence, or her humoring you, as a sign that what you’re doing is OK. My MOH had managed to piss off most of my wedding party by about 11am on the day of my wedding. I didn’t say a word to her, not because I was ok with it, but because the last thing I wanted on such a busy day was to get into an argument. Most brides will let it go for the sake of not having a big conflict on their big day, but know that in their head, they’re secretly stabbing you. Repeatedly.

6. When all else fails, do not let any other phrases, but the following, escape your mouth for the entire day:

  • Oh my God, you look stunning.
  • I am so happy to see you so happy.
  • Can I get you anything at all?
  • Do you need me to hold your dress while you pee?
  • Thank you for inviting me to be such a big part of your day, I am so blessed to have you in my life.

Note: should you find yourself even THINKING about doing any of the above things I told you not to do, you should consider the fact that you are, in fact, a drama queen. Work on that shit. No one likes a drama queen. You ladies are exhausting.

Ladies, it’s not that difficult. Really, it can all be summed up with this:

This day is not about you.

Don’t be the jackass that the rest of the wedding party holds up as an example of what not to do for the rest of their lives.

How Not to Be a Jackass Maid of Honor or Bridesmaid

My Fear of Toilets, Toilet Snakes, and Porta Potty Perverts

I don’t remember a specific time that I didn’t have a small, underlying, perpetual fear of the toilet, but I know that there must have been one. After all, most of us had a period of time as small children where we were naive to all of the ill-fated things that could happen in the world.

Such as snakes in the toilet.

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I don’t remember exactly when this fear began. The fear that I would sit down to pee and a snake would launch out of the toilet and bite my hoo-ha or, worse, slither right into it.

That might sound strange to men, or even some women who apparently have no fear about foreign objects entering their vagina. They’re probably pretty whore-ish and so have absolutely no sense of boundaries when it comes to vaginal intruders. I, on the other hand, do not like foreign objects in my vagina, especially when unexpectedly thrust into it while I’m just having an innocent pee.

To prove that my fear is not unfounded, I even did some research, which produced terrifying results. But Calmass Husband was unsympathetic.

Me: I just googled “snakes in toilet” and looked at images. Long story short, I’m going to have to start peeing elsewhere
CAH: We don’t live in the south where snakes swim
Me: I think they could swim anywhere
CAH: … we don’t have swimming snakes here
Me: prove it
CAH: I can’t
Me: exactly
CAH: :\
Me: I think it’s easy for you to be so cavalier about such things when you don’t have to live in fear of being violated every time you sit on the toilet. Plus, you men get to pee standing up, and it’s not like snakes are salmon who swim upstream.

How nice it must be to be a man and just whiz willy-nilly into the toilet, without giving a second thought to unwanted snakes in your penis.

As for me, I can’t remember the last time I sat on a toilet without a little fear in the back of my mind, and the need to peer into the toilet, mid-stream, to make sure that nothing reptilian was lurking below the surface.

And keep in mind, I don’t even have a fear of snakes in general. I actually quite like snakes and think they are often misunderstood and inappropriately villainized. I do, however, have a problem with them swimming up into my toilet, and potentially my vagina.

As of this writing, I found at least TWO incidences of people, one man and one woman, getting bit by a snake in the toilet. There could have been more, but I couldn’t bring myself to scroll any further down Google. The fact that it has happened to at least two people is enough for me, because it means that it is possible that I’ll be the third.

I discovered on my honeymoon that this fear is not specific to snakes.

We found a nice hotel in which to stay on the last night of our honeymoon that was fairly new and aiming to impress its guests. Not 5 minutes after we entered our room, we heard a knock on our hotel room door and found that the front desk, to whom we mentioned it was our honeymoon, sent us a complimentary bottle of champagne. Seriously, if you mention to people that you’re on your honeymoon, you get all kinds of free crap. Try it.

We were pretty tired by the time we arrived at our hotel, so off went our clothes, uncorked went the champagne, and on went the TV. It just so happened there was a marathon of the show “Ghost Hunters,” and so we hunkered in to watch a couple of men, who were probably past their prime in terms of starting a legitimate acting career, chase ghosts around allegedly haunted buildings. CAH and I snarkily made fun of these ridiculous men wasting their time chasing ghosts, and found the seriousness with which they took their missions hilarious.

A few hours of Ghost Hunters, and a half a bottle of champagne later, I had to pee. As I slid off the bed and headed into our hotel room bathroom, a thought began to creep into my mind, “What if a ghost is in the toilet??”. I quickly laughed off the idea as having had too much champagne and sat down. I couldn’t go.

Was the idea so silly? The episode of Ghost Hunters we’d just finished watching showed the hosts trying to chase down a little girl ghost, which we all know are the creepiest ghosts of all. Surely a little girl ghost could quietly hide in a toilet bowl with no trouble at all. What if I sat down to pee and she poked her little girl ghost fingers right into my lady business? Or worse, her tiny hands were probably nimble enough to full-on vagina punch me!

I sat there, frozen in fear at the thought of a tiny little fist furiously punching my vagina and feeling fairly certain that statutory rape laws would prevail since I was the adult and, even though there is little I could to stop a mad little girl ghost, I should have known better than to laugh at the idea that she existed in the first place, thus angering her to the point of hiding in a toilet and waiting for the complimentary champagne to overtake my bladder.

I must have stood up and sat back down at least a dozen times as I went back and forth between “This is ridiculous, there is no such thing as angry fisting little girl ghosts” and the fear of feeling that tiny cold fist violating my lady bits. I didn’t know where her little ghost hands had been and, let’s be honest, kids NEVER wash their hands.

I briefly thought about calling my new husband into the bathroom because I thought I might feel better if someone was in there with me, but I didn’t want to let my crazy peak out so early on in our marriage.

I carefully laid towels down in front of the toilet in anticipation for the possibility of having to bolt off the toilet and run away mid-stream (it wouldn’t be fair for housekeeping to have to clean up my pee stream) and half-squatted over the toilet so I could watch for a tiny girl ghost while I peed.

Thankfully, I was able to complete my pee into the toilet without any signs of a ghost.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t long after that several stories surfaced about men being caught inside of port-a-potties, spying on women as they did their business.

Yes. Men like to watch women do their business in a port-a-potty and have no issue with standing in a huge hole of waste to do it.

For me, it was yet another toilet intruder to worry about. Granted, I don’t pee in port-a-potties often, and even when port-a-potties are all that is available, I will try to hold it if I can. I take serious issue with the fact that port-a-potties are nothing but huge shit holes, disguised as bathrooms.

So I’ve done a fairly admirable job of avoiding port-a-potties, but sometimes, you have got to go and there are no other options. Recently, when my husband surprised me with a road trip to go wine tasting, I had to make that awful choice.

We stopped off in the middle of nowhere because CAH had heard of this little Mom and Pop shop that allegedly sold the best beef jerky in the world. I was thankful because the Venti Iced Latte I sucked down at the start of the trip had my bladder in a death grip. I followed my husband into the store and asked the burly woman behind the counter where the bathroom was.

“Outside” she answered in a husky voice, pointing outside as if I would somehow be confused as to where outside was, relative to where we were standing inside. My stomach dropped. I had to pee, badly, but something told me that port-a-potties in the middle of Deliverance Town would be a house of horrors, best-case-scenario. My ever-cheerful husband cheerfully told me he’d be out after he bought the beef jerky because he also had to go.

Of course he was cheerful, he could just saunter into the port-a-potty like the King of the Jungle, and pee standing up without worry of a creeper dude appearing out of nowhere. He had the advantage of standing and always being aware of the depths below.

I slowly and timidly walked out to the port-a-potties, and entered the first one.

I immediately noticed the plastic paper toilet-cover dispenser, on which some comedic individual had carved “Obama’s Policies”, which only served to confirm my suspicion that I was amongst the type of people who would wait for unsuspecting women in port-a-potties. Not because they hated Obama, but because they felt a port-a-potty was the most effective forum to ensure that their political views were heard.

I took a deep breath and began to pull down my pants. I heard CAH cheerfully enter the port-a-potty next to mine and manage to pee and exit the port-a-potty before I even had the nerve to gingerly squat over the toilet. I took another breath and slowly squatted over, silently praying that I could pee quickly, and that it wasn’t the kind that started strong and, just when you think it’s about to end, is drawn out for an extra 30 seconds with the tiniest trickle of a stream. Those are the WORST for avoiding port-a-potty creeps.

As I began to relieve myself, CAH, now standing right outside the port-a-potty, began talking to me:

“Awwwwww honey, there’s cows out here! They’re coming right up to the gate!” he said, oblivious to the fact that his wife was potentially squatting over the face of a pervert.

He continued,

“Babe! One is eating right from my hand! You’ve got to see this!” he exclaimed, as if I was taking so long in the port-a-potty because I was enjoying myself in there.

I finished up and walked outside, where CAH turned to me with a sweet, blissful look on his face, obviously unaware that I had narrowly escaped the potential of giving an unintended golden shower to some political port-a-pottie graffiti vandal. I decided he was totally selfish for not standing outside, readying himself to rush in and defend my honor should I let out a terrified squeal at spying a face staring back up at me from inside the potty.

It was then that I realized the fact that, when it comes to the dangers of having a vagina and needing to use a toilet, chivalry is dead.

A Public Service Announcement for Parents

Parents: we need to have a quick chat.

Look, we get that you love your kids. Really, we do. That’s why we read your umpteen updates on Facebook that alert us to your daily agendas, which include ballet lessons, karate lessons, bible school, and that “healthy” dinner of Hamburger Helper made with light sour cream.

And we love your kids because we love you. So, we’re kind of obligated.

Know that, despite our not being inclined towards kids, hearing your story about them FINALLY having a firm bowel movement after a week of diarrhea, or that their first words was “This,” even though we’re pretty sure that you just heard one of their gibberish words and glommed on to whatever word it most sounded like, there are limits.

So we ask you, a quid pro quo. We will continue to listen to your endless tales about the size of the corn kernels in their crap, if you understand a few things on our end:

1. Your kid’s growth percentile: First of all, we don’t give a shit that you have a fat baby. You may not realize this, but like, literally all kids that we hear about are above the 80% growth percentage, and you’re not somehow fooling us into thinking that you have this unusual baby who’s showing early signs of a competitive edge. To be clear, that doesn’t mean that all kids are above your kid’s percentile, it means that we are apparently not friends with deadbeats who starve their kids. And it seems that stupid percentile chart don’t mean much anyways.

2. If you want us to be even slightly interested in your kid’s progress, stop giving us your kid’s age in months after the first year. We do not care enough about your baby to do math in our heads. Especially if we’ve been drinking. Which, in order to listen to an hour-long discussion on baby poop, we probably have been.

3. EVERYONE’S FUCKING KID IS WEARING A BIGGER SIZE THAN DESIGNATED ON THE CLOTHING LABEL. Can we agree that, like, every 3 month old is probably wearing clothing for a 6 month old? And seriously, how fucked up is it that we place such value on fat babies, and stick thin teens/young adults. Warped.

4. DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT, start a sentence with, “Tell Jess about your trip to the __________________”. End it with whichever trip you’d like: zoo, park, San Diego, France, a bukkake house. I have several friends who tell their kids, “Tell Jess about your trip to the zoo.” and then I have to sit there while their kid, who is barely fluent in our language, takes 15 minutes to tell me about a trip to an establishment with which I disagree anyways. Put it this way: I give more of a shit about the welfare of those caged polar bears than your kid and his misguided learnings about how it is perfectly ok to make a mockery of wild animals who are being forced to live in a fake habitat for human amusement. Do not make us sit through your kid’s shitty, garbled, grammatically incorrect stories about trips and adventures.

We all know that, with the fact that he’s in the 90th percentile and wearing clothing for kids 6 months his senior, he’s destined for a sad future on “The Biggest Loser” anyways. Let’s not operate under the pretense that he’s remotely interesting.

Dear Chase Bank, Go Geflurg Yourself. #chasefail

Wiseass readers, this is between me and Chase Bank, so don’t read this. It’s private. I just feel it’s the only way to get through to the commie pinko assholes at Chase Bank.

Note to Chase: I am not 100% sure what a “Commie Pinko Asshole” is, but I heard my dad yell it a lot at the TV as a little girl, whenever the news was on. I assume it’s an insult. Or maybe you think it a compliment. That is exactly something that a commie pinko asshole would think.

Hi. I assume you’re here because it was difficult to read the letter in its original format – line by line on Twitter. Here it is in a simpler way.

DO YOU GET THAT? MAKING THINGS SIMPLER MAKES FUCKING SENSE.

Dear Chase

The level of my anger at your mismanagement of a simple check order is not how I wanted to start my holidays. It’s hard to express my displeasure to your customer service people & not sound like a gun threat (I’m not).

Being lost in your phone support system is akin to spending all day at Ikea. By the end, I was cranky, confused, and hungry. At least at the end of Ikea, I can buy a plate of delicious french fries. You may not have confusing Swedish words, but your banking rules are just as asinine, you f’ing smörbolls.

I now have two orders of checks, that have not arrived at my door. They could be anywhere. I have a new post man, so for all I know, the old one took them. He’s probably kiting checks cross-country, living the life on my hard-earned dollars.

Your phone support offered to send a 3rd order. I hesitated because, I don’t want the new postman to get ideas from the last one. But before I could weigh-in, I was told that they couldn’t order new ones after all. Because I had verified my address online.

Like your f’ing website prompted me to do.

So there was a waiting period. You fyrkantigs.

I now apparently have to go into the branch to order my checks, for the 3rd time. And your phone support’s only mea culpa? To put a “rush” on my order. The order that was already rushed due to the first round of check cancellations.

Are you kidding me, you dumarsles?

“Rush order” is a no-brainer at this point. It’s not an acceptable offering of apology for this ridiculousness.

I WANT MY PLATE OF FRENCH FRIES, YOU DUMJÀVELS!

Sincerely,

Jess, AKA The Wiseass Wife

#chasefail

P.s. I relish the day when I no longer have to pay my 90-something-year-old landlord my rent in check form, and can be done with them forever.

The Homeschooling Epidemic: How Homeschooling Mom Bloggers are Making Me Seriously Concerned About the Country’s Future Adults

Homeschooling seems to be as much of a rising trend as going gluten-free, or naming your kids any name with a suffix that rhymes with “ayden”. I believe it is a trend made popular from the rising mom-on-mom war crisis I reported not long ago. It’s an idiot’s war, to say the least.

Sidenote: I recently found out that the word “idiot” used to be the old term for the mentally disabled, before being replaced with today’s more popular term, “retard”. “Retard” is now taboo, so I’m not sure if “idiot” is also taboo, or if we can still safely use it? Also, if we are phasing out “retard”, once the new replacement word is phased in, will “retard” be allowed back in the rotation, like idiot was? Or is this word retired forever? My dad works with the mentally disabled, so I asked him what they call each other. Surprisingly, they call each other “retard,” and are offended when a peer calls them “idiot”. So I’m wondering if we aren’t waging war on the wrong word? It seems like we never even bothered to ask the mentally disabled which word offends them most, and I find that to be a complete lack of consideration for their feelings, as well as blatant disregard of their intellectual and emotional ability to decide these things for themselves. Frankly, I’d like us to stick with one word, so I don’t have to constantly stay abreast of which words I’m not allowed to use. Sticking with one taboo word makes things much more efficient.

Back to homeschooling.

I’m all for homeschooling. In some cases. In fact, my mom homeschooled my youngest brother. My mom is also a Stanford-educated attorney. The homeschooling moms I’m seeing in the blog-world are continuation school….at best.

Unfortunately, these barely-educated women (who’ve taken it upon themselves to pass their partial-knowledge on to their children) have found the world of blogging. The blogging world has afforded anyone with a computer and an Internet connection the ability to spout-off anytime they want. Case in point:

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Moms who blog and homeschool frequently seem to have a passing acquaintance with the English language. For example,  Jamie from DIY Home Sweet Home gives these tips:

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For fuck’s sake*, would a little punctuation kill you? You could probably throw a handful of commas at your blog, let them fall where they will, and it will make more sense than it does now.

* Fuck’s sake: Notice the apostrophe, Jamie, noting that the sake belongs to “fuck”. Punctuation is brilliant.

I found Jamie’s blog through Pinterest and, after reading her tips and wondering what high school freshman was writing the blog, wandered over to her bio:

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Of course she’s an entrepreneur, because every goddamn mom blogger out there is calling themselves an entrepreneur. Sorry, “momtrepreneur”. Listen, making a few bucks through sponsored links on your blog content that, let’s face it, isn’t groundbreaking, doesn’t make you an entrepreneur. By that standard, anyone who’s bothered to clean out their closet and sell their old crap at a consignment shop could call themselves an entrepreneur.

Entrepreneur seems to be a word that is thrown around a lot these days. I don’t think half of the people out there, proclaiming themselves to be an entrepreneur, know what it actually means.

Forbes defines “entrepreneur” as: “those who identify a need— any need —and fill it.”

I hate to break it to you “momtrepreneurs”, but: a million blogs, each spitting out the same tutorial for crappy thrifty homemade skirts that only other mom-bloggers would wear, or “healthy” snacks for kids that, in actuality, have the nutritional value of a Lunchable, is not fulfilling a need. You’re just the RC to cola’s Coke. Or cola’s Pepsi. Or cola’s Jarritos. Or cola’s Jones.

Now write a blog about how I can successfully have a child and not have to raise it full time, only having it on holidays to keep friends and relatives from constantly asking me when I’m going to have a baby, and you have a winning blog.

Start a successful business of volunteers who take on full-time children that aren’t even theirs, only giving them back to their biological parents for short periods of time, namely calendar holidays, and you can call yourself a “momtrepreneur”.

Darling Danielle over at the Blissful and Domestic blog is another mom blogger who homeschools. Here is a selection from her blog:

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What is it with homeschooling mom-bloggers and their aversion to punctuation?

P.s. Danielle:

“Every Day” means, “each day”. “Everyday” means something that is commonplace, such as, “This is my everyday jacket.”

I especially love that this is from an excerpt she wrote ABOUT homeschooling.

Look, I’ll be the first to tell you that editing your own work is tough. That’s why real writers have editors. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gone back to an article I’ve written, even though I’ve proofed it several times, and thought to myself, “Great, I look like a goddamn (insert word that isn’t “retard” but denotes the same sentiment); how did I miss that?”. And sometimes, I’m just lazy about it. Hell, just last week I accidentally wrote that Violet the Screaming Dog is a little “stalky,” when I really meant that she’s a little “stocky”. To be fair, she can be pretty fucking creepy at times. Sometimes I wake up to her just sitting there, staring at me. And try as I might, I can’t get the Marin County Courts to grant me a restraining order against a dog. They’re all, “Stop wasting our time, we have real crime to deal with.” And let’s face it, Violet would probably just ignore an order of restraint, probably citing “lack of ability to read,” and “lack of opposable thumbs to hold the paperwork”. What a dick.

But yeah, I’ll admit it, typos constantly sneak past me when I’m proofing my own work.

But do you know the difference between me and mom bloggers who homeschool ? I’m not writing a blog about educating children, and littering said blog with terrible spelling and grammar. I’m not taking it upon myself to be the sole educator for a growing brain. For shit’s sake (pop quiz Jamie: why is that apostrophe there?), if you’ve taken it upon yourself to actually be THE educator in the life of your children, get your shit together.

And while we’re at it: shouldn’t you have to prove to the state that you can academically function at the level of a high school graduate before you can be in charge of schooling your own kids? Or are the current regulations some kind of fucked-up, retroactive, “no adult left behind” plan that hopes to subtly teach the parents as they teach the kids?

Either way, if you’re a homeschooling parent who is: a) competent and, b) tired of the stigma that goes along with homeschooling your kids, perhaps take gals like Jamie and Danielle under your wing. Help them out so they don’t continue to perpetuate that stigma.

Is there a homeschool for homeschool parents?

Fucking Gays

and their always making the rest of us look bad by being over-achievers. Yes, I stereotype, but only in good ways. That’s why I have no problem saying that it seems like black and asian women never age.

Bitches.

But I was impressed to hear the progress that gay mayor Jimmy Cummings (or shall I say, Gayor Cummings?) of Vicco Kentucky is making as a politician.

I tend to not identify with one political party because I dislike them all too much to commit. Repubes, Democrabbys – they both irritate me to no end. Especially if they lean really liberal or conservative; I hate extremes. You know who’s extreme? Westboro Baptist Church. They’re horrible.

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You know who else is extreme? Hippies. They need to take a shower.

College liberal no guns

Essentially, I am like a lost little lamb in the political field. I have my own set of ideals, and I’ve worked tirelessly to get “Wiseassican” recognized as a political party, but the people at the post office keep yelling at me to “get off their property,” and that “they have nothing to do with assigning political parties,” and, “maybe I should learn a thing or two about American politics before I propose to start my own political party.”

Like that’s stopped anyone else.

But I do believe we should let people live their lives however the hell makes them happy, so long as the safety of other people or animals is not compromised (I’m looking at you, people into bestiality – sick fucks). Want a polygamous marriage? Knock yourself out (but not so fast, hands off the minors). Want an open marriage? Go for it. Want to make love to your entire vegetable drawer? Have at it. Why should I care?

I don’t, because it doesn’t affect me. And people being gay, does not affect you. You know who affects you? Rapists on the loose. And they’re allowed to marry. A guy could literally rape a girl on her way home from school, and then go get married. Well, you know, if he already had the license and everything ready to go. But it could happen. How does that guy deserve more rights than your innocent gay neighbor who doesn’t rape kids and, let’s face it, is bringing your property value up?

And that is why I am so tired of hearing people who are too afraid to just admit they don’t like gays, hide behind the excuse, “I don’t want them shoving their views in my face.”

So said one particular a-hole, Pastor Truman Hurt, during a segment on the Colbert Show where they spotlighted the fact that Gayor Cummings led the successful passage of a fairness bill, making Vicco the smallest town in the country to pass such a bill. The fairness bill states that people cannot be fired or denied medical treatment based on things like their sexual preference. Hurt opposes this and says that this is basically paving the way for the gay community to take over and push their lifestyle down our throats. (Full video below)

Which is funny because, if half as many gays as religious people knocked on my door to force their lifestyle down my throat, then maybe that argument would be valid. But not one has. Not one. And I’ve not once heard any of those hateful assholes complaining about Jehova’s Witnesses and the like, who literally knock on your fucking door to shove their fucking lifestyle down your throat. Not once.

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At least the gays would probably come with some wine. Those Jehova’s Witnesses never bring booze, and after all these years of listening to them blather on, I’m yet to fully understand what it is they witnessed Jehova doing. It must’ve been some scary shit because he’s got them repping him hard.

Bottom line: I’d honestly respect these assholes more if they at least admitted that they don’t like gays. Better to be an honest asshole, than a lying asshole.

I Tried “Leaning In” But I Leaned Too Far and Fell Over; A Non-Mom’s Thoughts On Facebook COO Sheryl Sandberg’s Book “Lean In”

I read Sheryl Sandberg’s book “Lean In”. Ok, I technically listened to it on Audible, which means that I was working while I was listening to it, which I think means I was leaning in more than most women. Not that it’s a competition, but it kind of is.

Sheryl Sandberg is the COO of Facebook and wrote a book for women on how to be more successful. The idea behind it is how to stop letting ourselves cave to outside pressures that many men don’t have to deal with. This book seems to be the feminist “ra ra we can do it” manifesto of this year, and many of her thoughts are nothing new, just repackaged so she can get a little financial slice of the feminist pie (which is presumably bushy).

Those who know me know that I’m not much of a feminist in the “man-hating” definition of the word, nor Sandberg’s apparent “you must procreate to be a worthy woman” take on the word. Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to see a woman president, and will fiercely debate my pro-life friends that, they aren’t truly pro-life if they aren’t stepping up to adopt or donate money to unwanted children; they’re just judgemental assholes. But I’m not out their burning my bra. I don’t even know if women are still burning their bras, to be honest. So there’s that.

But I wanted to give it a try because I saw a lot of my female friends recommending it, and I love books, so, why not?

Right off the bat, if you are a child-free woman, this likely isn’t the book for you. In Chapter 2 she began talking about the demands of working moms and I had hoped it was just for that chapter, but unfortunately by chapter 9, she was still rattling on about moms. Also, apparently, there are a lot of women out there with crappy husbands – she even makes her own husband kind of sound like a dick at times. An entire chapter focuses on how to get your husband to do more housework, as well as ways to get him to help take care of the children more. She also says that men get laid more when they do more housework. I guess that again must be a mom-thing because, if Calm-ass Husband tried to do the dishes as a form of foreplay, we’d have an issue on our hands.

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For someone who comes off as a feminist, I was disappointed to see her mainly pander to women who are mothers. The child-free movement is growing quickly, and largely stems from our rights to chose whether or not we want children. To assume that we all have kids seems counterintuitive to the fundamental idea around feminism. I find it bizarre that so many women like Sandberg complain that they are discriminated against in the workplace because they have children, while discriminating against women who chose to not have children. Pot, kettle, black.

I think one of the biggest fallacies that surrounds women without kids is that we somehow have it easier than those with kids, but a reminder: having kids was a conscious decision made presumably out of a desire to have them. I think one of the greatest disservices a woman can do to her children is to act as if they, or the life resulting from having them, are a hardship. We’ve all met our fair share of self-righteous moms who love to paint themselves as the martyr who sacrifices so much for her family, while working and keeping the household together. They almost act as if kids were something that just happened to them, rather than a choice. Don’t get me wrong, I am lucky to have mom friends who do a great job at managing all of the responsibilities in their lives without constantly feeling the need to smugly lord it over the heads of others like some sort of trophy. Those also seem to be the moms who actually enjoy motherhood instead of treating it like a cruel inevitability of life. If I were to ever start complaining that I felt lonely without kids, everyone would look at me and say, “You chose this path, suck it up”. Why don’t we say that more to those who want to complain about their lives with kids?

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The fact is, being child-free does not exempt you from struggles, sacrifice, and hardships in life, they’re just different. Yet Sandberg continues to beat the mom-thing to death throughout her book, as if only moms deal with these issues. She reminds me of a friend of mine, a mother of two, who will listen to me vent a frustration I’m having about an issue, and then sum it up with, “Well, at least you weren’t up last night at 3am with a vomiting child,” as if it’s some sort of pissing contest, and her vomiting child trumps my heartbreak at having to watch my husband be forced to take steps to put his own mother in jail. Is there some level of disconnect from reality that clouds some womens’ brains and make them complete narcissists once they have a child?

I even double checked the title of the book, it said “Lean In: Women, Work, and the Will to Lead”. It didn’t say “Lean In: Moms, Work, and the Will to Lead”. So in a sense, Sandberg actually managed to write a book about how women are alienated in the workplace, while alienating a portion of the women who read her book. Well done, Sandberg.

One thing she did mention that was helpful is the phenomenon called “Imposter Syndrome”, which I think is an important syndrome of which to be aware. I Wiki’d that syndrome (you know it’s true if it came from Wiki) and found out,

“The impostor syndrome, sometimes called impostor phenomenon or fraud syndrome, is a psychological phenomenon in which people are unable to internalize their accomplishments. Despite external evidence of their competence, those with the syndrome remain convinced that they are frauds and do not deserve the success they have achieved. Proof of success is dismissed as luck, timing, or as a result of deceiving others into thinking they are more intelligent and competent than they believe themselves to be.”

Basically, when you are receiving accolades, promotions, or a job offer because of your amazing accomplishments, there’s a part of you that says, “I don’t deserve this, I didn’t earn this, they’re going to figure me out eventually.” I know a lot of people, myself included, who have experienced this, so it was nice to hear that someone in a position such as Sandberg experiences it as well.

Overall, Sandberg has valuable things to say to moms, and I’m sure that moms will get a lot out of the book – I even bought it for a mom friend of mine. Unfortunately, for women who don’t have kids, we’ll just have to wait for a successful non-babyhead to be the beacon of inspiration in the murky waters of corporate America.