No! I’m not his Mother!

Published March 22, 2017 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Dressed in a marijuana baseball cap, a camouflage bomber jacket, ripped jeans and Vans hi top sneakers, it was just a typical trip to the supermarket. Or so I thought. “Why don’t you grab the vegetables and I’ll get the toilet paper”, I said to my 26 year old roommate. The second he walked off the woman standing next to me said – “Is that your son?” OHMIGOD BREATHE DON’T PUNCH HER IN THE FACE THIS IS A NICE PLACE AND THE VEGETABLES ARE CHEAP AND THEY ALWAYS HAVE YOUR FAVORITE KOMBUCHA DON’T GO BANANAS NOW HEIDI JUST BREATHE AND SMILE AND KEEP MOVING FOR THE LOVE OF GOD KEEP MOVING. I take a deep breath. “No, he’s not.” And I walk away. I’m not telling you shit bitch. You can wonder the whole fucking day what you just saw and I’ll never give you the satisfaction of telling you the truth. Again, deep breaths. But, this is not the first time this has happened. This is the 7,546th time it’s happened. And it hasn’t just happened with my roommate. It’s happened with another male friend who’s 35 and a female friend who’s 42. How the fuck old do I look to you people? More importantly, what am I not seeing? People have always told me that age is just a number but it doesn’t matter how young I feel if you keep reminding me of how young I’m not by asking me if I’m everyone’s mother. Everyone’s!!! Is no one old enough to be my mom? Are those people all dead? And why the fuck do you need to know that anyway? How is that going to make this two second meeting in the frozen food section any better? Will you go home and yell at your kid who won’t go to the super market with you because you saw some cool mom with her kid shopping for toilet paper together and isn’t that cute you need to love me more son don’t’ you know that?!

Right now you can probably tell that my daily meditation is not quite working but not only do I not want to be someone’s mother – I don’t want to look like someone’s mother. I realized that people are looking at my outfits like I look at BaddieWinkle – that weird instagranny who’s always dressed really  inappropriately – i.e. exactly like me – and now I have to start asking my young friends if they’re embarrassed to be out with me. Here’s the thing… I have a lot of friends in their twenties and thirties. One might say – I collect them – and perhaps I do – but I do it for a very good reason – because I like being around people who like being alive and young people unlike people my age – are not yet dead inside. I’m trying to skip the dead inside portion of my life because I feel like I already did that – and left that – at the bottom of a bottle of wine. Fuck mature. I’m not ready for that. I like people who say yes to the idea of things that are scary or maybe stupid or just plain old retarded. I like people who like new things. Or perhaps I’m just grasping at my disappearing youth and I’m about to start drinking and drugging again. It’s a theory.

I’ve come to realize that I really had no idea how old I looked to other people.  I thought I just looked really shitty for a 35 or 40 year old – I didn’t realize that I looked exactly how old I am.  Fuck. I’m 56. And instead of feeling really great about that – I’m feeling like I’m a weirdo – because instead of just being out with friends – I’m out with my kids – according to your questions, or glares, or whispers. And I’m not fishing for compliments folks.  I’m good. Ish. I’m okay. No need to tell me otherwise.

I write about age a lot and I think it’s because it’s been the hardest thing for me to wrap my head around because my number just doesn’t match the number I feel and you people keep reminding me of it every time you ask me if I’m someones  mother. So please stop it. I’m trying to have a nice day and you keep ruining it. Also – just because I wear flat shoes and have tattoos doesn’t mean I’m a lesbian. I mean, I might be one day – but I’m not today. So please stop making me tell you I’m not someones mother and I’m not gay. If either of those two things change – you’ll be the first to know.

THE BARKING LOT

Published February 28, 2017 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

vegetable oil, chives, agave… vegetable oil, chives, agave… vegetable oil, chives, agave. I said the three items to myself over and over again as I pulled into the Gelsons parking lot. I usually send myself emails or write slips of paper listing ingredients I need and then completely forget that I emailed them or where I put them, but I was ADMITTEDLY in a rush. I had a hair appointment in twenty minutes and a dinner party immediately following and I had forgotten a few key things I needed. In I pulled to the Gelsons parking lot – which is so fancy it now has live Jazz music on the weekends. It has become a source of deep embarrassment to me and I try to shop when I know the weird man with the guitar in the fruit section playing to a crowd of weirdos who choose to actually sit and have wine and cheese at a bar in the middle of a supermarket – wont be there. I could point them to ten solid cool bars within spitting distance. The snacks may not be so easily accessible but the music is probably better. Anywhooooo… I pulled in to the parking lot just as a man with a small girl started walking from their car to the front of the supermarket. I WAS NO WHERE NEAR THEM.   “Excuse me. You almost hit us. Did you not see us?” I was not in the mood for this and so I simply said – “I did not. Terribly sorry.” But this was not enough for him. “Were you even looking? Were you on your phone? I bet you were on your phone.” Now normally I wouldn’t have taken that bet because I could have been on my phone but I wasn’t. “You’re going to kill someone because of the way you drive.” Me: “Sir, I’m not quite sure what you want from me but I already apologized.” He continued…. He would not stop. “I have a child with me and you need to watch where you’re going.” I kept walking into the store. He kept berating me. I wanted so badly to shred him with my tongue but couldn’t because I was at least cognizant that he had a child with him. “We’re going to pull the parking lot tapes and report you.” Oh for the love of god please pull the parking lot tapes. I’m sure they tape all the stupid shit that doesn’t happen in the parking lot. Maybe you can track down where that guy goes that says he’s taking my money for some orphanage. I know he’s not. See if you can follow him? Maybe you can solve the Girl Scout Cookie crisis that’s happening. I mean – they’re out there every day. Maybe you could show the tapes to those GreenPeace and Peta people and prove that I have donated every fucking day and to leave me the fuck alone. And then he said “We almost had to stop walking to avoid you.” And I turned… “You ALMOST” had to stop walking? ALMOST!!??? Ohmigoodness are you okay? Have I thrown off your entire shopping trip because you had to ALMOST stop walking in a parking lot. IT’S A PARKING LOT NOT A WALKING LOT. But what I really wanted to say I didn’t and so I shall say it now. FUCK YOU MAN WHO’S TOO OLD TO HAVE THE CHILD YOU HAVE. YOU’LL BE DEAD WHEN SHE’S TWENTY. BUT YOU’RE SO FUCKING SELFISH YOU JUST HAD TO HAVE A CARBON COPY OF YOURSELF EVEN THOUGH YOU’RE TOO OLD TO EVEN GET IT UP ANYMORE. DO YOU THINK IT’S A GOOD IDEA TO TEACH YOUR CHILD THAT BERATING SOMEONE IN THE MIDDLE OF A PARKING LOT IS A GOOD LESSON? PERHAPS WE COULD HAVE HAD A DISCUSSION AND YOU COULD HAVE TAUGHT HER SOMETHING ABOUT WORKING OUT YOUR PROBLEMS AND NOT YELLING AT TOTAL STRANGERS. YOU DON’T KNOW WHO I AM OR WHAT MY DAY WAS LIKE OR WHAT I’M GOING THROUGH AT THIS MOMENT. I SAID I’M SORRY. YOU ARE A BELIGERENT ASSHOLE WHO SHOULDN’T BE ALLOWED TO RAISE A CHILD. YOU’RE SO LUCKY I DIDN’T DESTROY YOU WITH MY MOUTH. BECAUSE I COULD HAVE. AND ANOTHER THING – YOU SUCK.

I feel better.

Hey people with kids – I get it – they’re precious. So am I.

Saying Goodbye to Mrs. Tingle

Published January 19, 2017 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

 

Nothing funny will be said here tonight. I thought you should know that right up front, because tonight I went to say goodbye to someone who is losing her battle with cancer. Texts were pinged. Emails were sent. Calls were made. Come say goodbye. It’s time. I had no idea she was even dying. See. No chance of being funny.

Her name is Bonnie Tiegel and if you’re a celebrity – you’ve probably met her. She is almost always – the only person smiling at you when you walk up to Mary Hart or Mark Steines or a host of other hosts as you make your way down that blood red sea of media folk. She is the bubbly smile and warm hug that greets everyone everyday no matter her mood – no matter where she is – no matter who you are. Everyone loves Bonnie and Bonnie loves everyone. She is a mother figure to so many people it’s impossible to keep count. But WE didn’t always have the best of relationships – in fact we barely spoke – and that is why this news – has hit me like a ton of bricks – because the second I got the terrible text – I knew I had to see her.  I suddenly felt drawn to “right” what now felt like such a “wrong.” How do you say goodbye to someone when you have so much more to say than that one oh so definite word?

The hospital was packed with friends and family and the tears instantly poured down my face. I wasn’t going to be able to keep it together. No way. No how. I couldn’t even look at the people who were there because I thought I was going to lose it completely. The last time I saw Bonnie was at her office at Entertainment Tonight. It’s right down the lot from where we shoot Baby Daddy and yet – I never go there. Many know why – but mostly – it’s the scene of so many crimes I just can’t go in there without feeling doomy and awful. But I went specifically to go see Bonnie who I had heard was sick but had kicked cancers ass. I wanted to go see that she was okay. Bonnie and I had been through a lot together at ET and quite frankly NONE of it was good. I was the new guard arguing with the older guard and we were always pitted against each other and I was too stupid to realize that none of it fucking mattered. She was just trying to do her job. She just didn’t want to be fired. I remember when we were in London together covering the Alice In Wonderland premiere. It was Bonnies job to get Mary on the greeting line to shake Prince Charles and Camillas hands. We would have a camera crew cover it. It was a huge deal because we had already shot the wrap arounds that said Mary met them – it had to happen or we were screwed. This was a big fucking deal – like life threatening. Long story short – we got Mary on that line – and although we were quite battered for it –  for the first time Bonnie and I realized – we were actually on the same team. We weren’t the enemy. We knew who it was – but it wasn’t either of us. We stayed up all night in our bathrobes and ate room service that cost way more than we were allowed on our per diem. But we didn’t care.  We had won.  Victory was ours.  Sadly, once back home, our new found friendship went by the way side. I’m sure it was my pig headed stupidity.  I have to have everything my way at work. We were back to being scared people at a crazy job – fighting to stay sane and keep our bank accounts in the black. Bonnie has given her life to that job and that job has taken it. Thats what the news business does.  But she gave it gladly – with a smile on her face and hugs from her heart.

And so tonight I went to be there with her and hope that somehow she would get this message from me – that hearing what she was going through made me realize that none of it mattered – none of it. That’s right – I got hit with a big fat cliche.

I walked into her room, her eyes barely open, and said “Really Bonnie? You know they don’t let me in nice places like this.” For the first time in my life I think I really understood the expression – her face lit up. It did.  Mark Steines had come into the room with me as the three of us have shared some amazingly awful times together. He said – look who I brought Bonnie. She just kept saying “oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.” I knew then that coming was a good idea. But to me it seemed like the only thing TO do. Mark told some stories and she laughed. I sat by her side and held her hand. After a bit Mark had to leave but I couldn’t get up. I literally could not get up out of the chair. I couldn’t let go of her hand. Her eyes were closed. I didn’t even think she could hear me. Her breathing was so soft and deep and peaceful and again I just burst into tears. I kept wanting to ask her – where she was – how she felt – what was she thinking about. I was desperately looking for some clarity as to what it all means and for some reason I was convinced she would give it to me if I could just ask. There were so many people waiting to say goodbye and so I said “I have to go Bonnie.” Suddenly her eyes popped open and she spoke with such clarity as she said over and over again – “I love you so much.  I miss you every day. I think about you all the time. You are always in my heart. I never stop thinking about you.” It was like she HAD to tell me. I said all the same things back to Bonnie, because I HAD to tell her too. I told her that I would always keep her in my heart and my mind. I also told her I was going to write about her. She said – “please.”  I will never forget that moment. The tears were literally pouring down my face onto her skin. We never stopped holding hands.  I know I’m not the first person to face losing someone and realizing that it’s important not to sweat the small stuff when the big thing is right out there looming every day. But I feel the clarity now.  I will definitely think differently about the way I war with people. Sometimes it’s so damn silly. And while this may seem like making someones death all about me – this is just what i do – I write about things to set my mind straight.  So, just deal with it.

I used to call Bonnie – Mrs. Tingle – it’s so long ago that I don’t even remember why – but I do know this – she is loved and I’m so happy I got to say goodbye.

 

I’m Freezing

Published January 4, 2017 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

It’s been in the 40’s temperature wise here in Los Angeles and I’m cold. Actually, I’m more than cold. I’m chilled to the bone wearing every sweater I own at once, house heat turned on full blast 24/7 and a constant fire, cold. Like – I’m totally fucking freezing and I can’t get warm – cold. Now I’m from New York so I know what it’s like to freeze. The last time I lived in the Big Icy Apple that only has four good days of weather – we had 28 snowstorms in one winter and I ended up in California. No one needs to take three hours to get to an office building three blocks away. I also went to school in a place where the wind chill took the temps down to 50 below and you had to use a tow rope to get to class which granted I needed anyway based on my alcohol consumption most nights before – but it was cold. And I was fine. I could run around outside in a bikini with a beer bong and a pair of Uggs and laugh in the face of winter. Ha Ha winter you mother fucker. I got you beat. But I’m not fine right now and I’m not kidding. I wore three sweatshirts to work out in the other day and kept them on for the first fifteen minutes of class. Not normal. Also, not cute. All that extra material made me look fat and I haven’t reached the point of anorexia where I’m willing to wear one of those garbage bag sweat suits that make you pour off the pounds. No one wants to look fat at the gym. I’m also not a gal who wears make up to class.  What the fuck is that ladies?  Seriously – if you have eye lashes on you’re not fooling anyone as to why you’re there. You’re looking to lift about a two pound weight – of a diamond – onto your engagement finger.

Now there are two quite popular theories on why I’m freezing. #1 – that I am such a Californian now that I can no longer take the cold and my blood is thinner than when I lived in New York. Uh,  I haven’t asked a medical professional about this theory but I call bullshit. Last winter I went to Whistler BC and I was fine. I was more than fine. I played in the snow. I sat in a Jacuzzi in the middle of an outdoor deck. And there was no alcohol involved. But I wasn’t freezing – I was perfect. So – it’s not that. The other theory is #2 – that I’m so skinny now that I no longer have body fat. God I love this theory. I want to embrace this theory more than George Clooney while eating a box of Krispy Kremes, but let me tell you guys a couple two three things – this is not true – and I know – because I’ve seen me naked and I have plenty of body fat. In fact – I have your body fat. I may have everyone’s body fat. I am a skinny bag of cellulite. So it’s not that.  And then, last night in a haze of Gorilla Glue and sugar free vegan lemon cookies, I got a flash of what the real reason is and it sent a second chill down my spine colder than the chill I was already in. I’m cold because I’m old. Boom. Holy fucking shit balls when did this happen? I’m a frail old woman with thin skin and I’m freezing to death. What’s next? Soup only meals? Actually I’m on that now because my teeth keep cracking. Wait – is that another sign? Fuck. And now I realize – there have been numerous signs to me becoming an elderly human. I’m constantly afraid of falling, and not off of anything substantial – just my high heels.  They are dead to me. Also – I’m tired. A lot. On the outside I want to go to bars and concerts and dance clubs – but on the inside I’m exhausted by midnight. And I used to know how to shut shit down.  Like next level. But the true sign may be the phrases that keep wanting to pop out of my mouth that up until recently only came out of my mothers. The biggest being aimed at my 26 year old roommate. Every night – every single night – I want to yell from my bedroom down to his – two floors below – STOP SLAMMING THE DOORS. But I don’t. Because I don’t want to admit that this is a thought in my head.  And, he’s not slamming anything. My inner volume knob has apparently been turned up to Social Security level. My mother used to say this to me on the daily. I have no idea what it is about the noise level of a door closing but apparently it’s the true test of how old you are. If I lick my finger and wipe dirt off of his face – it’s over. Now, I know people say age is just a number but my number is getting higher.  So I’m gonna buy me another parka because I’m only getting older and it’s only getting colder.

Oh, The Horror!

Published January 1, 2017 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I am a giant fan of horror movies and the scarier the better. The more I have to scream, fling myself from my theater seat or look through tiny slits in my fingers smashed heavily against my face – the happier I am. A really good horror film will send me home from the movies with a new found terror of my own house. I will search every closet, under every bed, inside every cabinet before concluding that whatever ate whomever in the movie – did not come home with me. I will then say a silent speech to all monsters and freak shows that are possibly still hiding in my house preparing to pounce on me as soon as I turn the lights off and convince them that a better candidate to see them and be scared of them would be a house down the street or better yet – down the country. I usually only watch horror movies at the theater so that I don’t invite Stick Figure Man or Snake Face Girl or Clown Face Boy or Whatever Faced Whatever into my home. But last week – when I should have just enjoyed a day on the couch with nothing to do but watch Ren & Stimpy – I made the mistake of hitting play on a horror movie I may never get out of my head. A movie so terrifying that it has changed me – perhaps forever. The movie was called – “Minimalism” –about people who have chosen to live their lives – wait for it – WITHOUT STUFF.   Now the movie was filed under documentary but let’s be very clear here – if a flick about people choosing to live with two pairs of pants,  a teapot made from a soup can, a bed that closes into the wall, and shoes made out of cereal boxes isn’t a horror film than I don’t know the genre at all. It seems however, that there is a new movement in this country about how your life might be better – with less. Now I don’t know about you guys but I was taught that less is never a good thing. More is good. More is what we want more of. Nobody wants less of anything – except maybe cancer – and that we have more of than we most definitely need.

The documentary featured a bunch of incredibly interesting people who have made major changes in their lives to live with less and have greatly improved those lives they were living.  They had less stuff and connected to life – more.  Now, I’ve definitely thought about this where my phone is concerned.  I’m far to connected to it for all the wrong reasons and have recently decided to ween myself off of this social media madness I can get wrapped up in.  WHY DIDN’T YOU LIKE MY PICTURE OF MY DOG EATING A BONE? WHY ISN’T MY LIFE AS INTERESTING AS HERS? WHY DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND THAT YOU NEED TO SEE A PICTURE OF ME IN A CAT ONESIE?  But this one woman in the documentary really freaked me out because she decided to live for an entire month with just thirty three items of clothing. Now that includes – shoes, bags and jewelry. No, I’m not fucking kidding you. She managed to rotate these items for an entire month and said “no one noticed.” Well I say – NO ONE CARES ABOUT YOU CRAZY LADY! She’s clearly A) not a very popular person to begin with or B) Everyone noticed but chose not to say anything you dirty little piglet. And so she took this experiment and extended it to one year. SHE WORE THE SAME 33 ITEMS FOR ONE YEAR!!  An icy cold chill just swept up my spine now even thinking about it again and typing the terrible words on the page. What if I had to pick just thirty three items from my wardrobe to wear for one year? I’m wearing nine items right now and I just got out of bed. Plus, I’m already annoyed by these 9 items and don’t plan on wearing them again until next week or maybe – never again. Am I supposed to decide between my pair of below the ankle black leather boots, ankle high black leather boots, knee high black leather boots or thigh high black leather boots? Thats not even possible.  I have at least 15 pairs of jeans that I can not live without.  Seriously, I hyperventilate whenever i try to thin the herd.  And what about my dresses? I mean – I could outfit every single solitary personality that lives within me – three times – and that is quite a number.  What if I had to live my life without stuff. I mean – I like my stuff. No – I NEED my stuff. I have made it my lifes mission to become a Maximalist! I’ve worked hard for all the things I don’t even know I have. Yesterday I was in a store desperately searching for some new sweatpants that had a particular kind of bottom. To my extreme sadness – I couldn’t find any anywhere. Then I cleaned out my dresser – and found four pairs. Huh – this less is better situation may be something to look into. My head was spinning like Regan’s in The Exorcist. I mean – I start every single day of my life searching for new stuff on the internet. Every. Single. Day. What can I add to my Amazon wish list now? That pepper shaker shaped like a bulldog is adorbs isn’t it? Those slippers made of yoga mats are an absolute must have – am I wrong? I GOTTA HAVE IT! I GOTTA HAVE EVERYTHING. But what if the stuff we want more of – is what’s giving us cancer? What if all the stress of chasing and finding and getting and buying is what’s making us sick? Now that’s something to ponder in 2017.

For now – I’m just going to clean out my closets and get rid of some things I haven’t worn – or had no idea I even owned – and pare down the STUFF in my life.  But I’m not going to do anything crazy.  In fact – if you see me in the same pair of pants more than two days in a row – please call someone.  I mean – I have standards.

Dear Santa

Published December 25, 2016 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I know it’s a little late but if the fat guy is still up there flying around handing shit out – I have a list and a chimney and I’m willing to bake cookies if that helps get a visit from the Commander in Chief of Christmas. I feel that since Hanukah fell on Christmas Eve this year,  I can poach a couple of elves to handle my stuff. I’m sure if the people who ran Chanukah could figure out one spelling for that holiday for all of us to use – we’d finally get a couple of gift and wish elves of our own, but until that happens I’m hoping for a crossover episode. Now I realize some of my requests are a little global but hey – you’re Santa and you have a shit ton of reindeer to help – so get to it fat man – you still have the whole day. I don’t need new stuff. Just some help with the old.

 

#1 – Can you please help me find my slippers. They were last seen on my feet.

 

#2 – Can you please help me find my favorite bracelet. It was last seen on my wrist.

 

#3 – Can you help me find everything I’ve ever lost in my own home.   Socks, shoes, shirts, glasses, rings, my mind, etc. This one in particular is going to be on the list every year so deal with it. I have to.

 

#4 – Can you please erase the memories from the brains of all the people I was in exercise class with the morning I almost shit myself and had to hide in the workout bathroom for twenty minutes with disaster pants listening to the instructor yell – “thirty seconds left people, lets really push it!” Trust me… I was pushing.

 

#5 – Can you make sugar the greatest diet secret known to mankind and every time we eat something sweet we drop another pound? I’d be invisible right now. And not the kind of invisible I already am.

 

#6 – Can you straighten my hair permanently. I feel like this is a fair trade off for a Jew turning to Santa for help.

 

#7 – Can you please get people to stop reminding me of my past. People do change. People who remind us of what assholes we used to be – don’t. Lets knock that crap out immediately.

 

#8 – Can you get Zara to stop using Syrian Refugee children to make my favorite clothing. How am I supposed to buy sparkle pants for NYE if they’re tainted with child sweat.

 

#9 – Can you put an age limit on dieting and award a bonus to everyone who stays skinny until they’re 55?   YOU DON’T KNOW HOW HARD IT IS SANTA!!

 

#10 – Can you end war and famine and all that shitty stuff so I feel better about wanting the new Time Slippers that look like sneakers but feel like heaven.

 

#11 – Can anyone who ever abuses a child or an animal, immediately vanish from the planet the second it happens right after they get a punch to the face that lasts an eternity.

 

#12 – Can good things stop happening to bad people.

 

#13 – Can bad people stop ruining good things.

 

#14 – Can the Karma police get a time limit. Thirty seconds tops is good for me.

 

#15 – Can you erase the life tapes of me doing embarrassing stuff like falling down drunk, eating things out of the garbage, having sex with horrible people and maybe barfing on them, wearing stirrup pants, getting a perm, leaving that horrendous fuck you message that one time on that guys answering machine and the time I bought a pet rock. I don’t want to have to watch those tapes when I get to heavens waiting room. I feel like I’m already going to be too busy crying about all the time I wasted caring about all the things on my lists.

 

Thanks Santa.

The Big Break Up

Published December 24, 2016 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Well, I’ve gone and done it now.  I’ve completely misjudged an entire gender and now I think – I’m really going to pay for it.  It turns out that the straight white american man – is a big fat liar.

The straight white American man has always been my friend.  He was always predictable to an embarrassing degree and I was always cool with knowing exactly what’s in the box before I rip off the “you’re cute when you think you’re right” bow and throw away the “i know i can change you” wrapping.  The straight white American man and I got each other. That is – until now.

It’s taken me years to discover true friendships with women, the gays and I have managed to find some common yet shaky ground, but I never questioned my relationship with the white American man. I could always depend on his love. I believed that at the end of the day – my power as a woman – could overcome anything he didn’t intentionally put in my way (because you know they never do anything intentionally) and laugh quietly to myself knowing that in the grand scheme of life – I had won. We always win. We’re women. They love us. Ruh Roh.

We go way back – the straight white American man and I.  We worked in television and told dick jokes together, we drank beers and talked about ugly chicks at the bar and I even banged a couple of them here and there along the way when I was super duper drunk and didn’t care.  I got them and they didn’t get me.  It was a beautiful relationship. No surprises. Everyone keep making out and moving – and we’ll all be fine. They won’t do anything too stupid. They’re straight white American men for goodness sakes. They’ve even figured out how to do some good stuff right? Again, Ruh Roh

Now I’m not sure how it happened but it seems that all these years of me thinking that I was winning as a woman, has been a lie. It seems that behind our backs – we’ve been put into some kind of chick coma – hypnotized to believe we are loved … and heard. Yes, in 2016 I found out something that I really didn’t think was possible – is very very real.  The straight white American man HATES ME. (And by the way so do a lot of his women folk) Yes, the young man I grew up thinking I could count on – wants nothing to do with me. In fact – you’re running in the opposite direction of me and I’m starting to believe that all the horrible things people have said about you for all these years are true. I defended you – and now you’ve abandoned me. And the worst part is – it didn’t just start in 2016. You’ve hated me all along and hid it. You’ve laid in wait all these years and pounced on me when I least expected it. You may be the voice I’ve been battling the loudest all these years and you may have even used me to talk about my own kind and hate them and be jealous of them. You have lulled me into a false sense of security, plotting and scheming against me for years – and now the worst thing that could happens has… you’ve picked a leader more hideous than anyone could have imagined. You’ve made the doofus of all straight white American men – your KING. And you gave him the keys to my castle.

And so I’m breaking up with you straight white American man. You can have your records back but I’m keeping the I’M WITH STUPID t-shirt. I will not be quiet. I will not be polite. I will not be your bitch any more.

For all anger about grand generalizations… please see the management.