I’d make a lousy straight woman for a lot of reasons. The not-wanting-to-sleep-with-men-thing is the obvious answer. However, I’m much more inclined to sleep with men than are many of my married lady friends, who seem to be perpetually repulsed by their husbands.
The top reason I’d make a bad straight woman is that I really enjoy making fun of babies. About the worse sin you can commit as a straight woman is poking fun at infants and toddlers.
Why is this? It’s not like they can fight back. They can’t counter with a clever retort that makes your observation appear less than witty. They’re the perfect foils.
I love my nieces. But what I love even more is getting a laugh at their expense. When I say, “Oooh, you look good enough to eat,” I always follow it by plopping them in a big roasting pan. That joke never gets old.
Many of my baby jokes revolve around my desire to cook and eat them. But I never would. Unless, of course, a puppy or kitten wasn’t available. That joke never gets old, either.
I have an office friend who is an expectant father. One day, as I was giving him many practical uses for a new baby—human shield; food tester; psychology experiment; light snack—a gang of straight women surrounded me, and insisted that I take charge of planning his “man shower.”
“I don’t shower with men,” I chirped gaily, happy that my deviant sexuality got me out of yet another ugly jam.
“It’s a baby shower for fathers,” they scolded.
It’s my ignorance of bizarre suburban rituals—and not my desire to bed women—that seems to be most offensive to straight women.
“Done!” I exclaimed.
“What do you mean ‘done’?” they asked in exasperation. “These things take weeks of planning. What food will be served? What games will be played?” I asked.
They didn’t like my suggestion that we head to a bar after work one afternoon, get the new dad plastered, and encourage him to make out with his boss.
“That’s a fun game!” I enthused.
It should be noted that every straight man in the office perked up at that idea. Our collective spirits were crushed, though, when the women insisted that instead of getting drunk, we play proper baby shower games, many of which, alarmingly, revolve around making people taste a chocolate bar melted into a diaper.
“Why is it OK to humiliate adults by forcing them to eat chocolate poop, but making fun of babies is forbidden?” I asked. “What’s a baby ever done for me other than drool down the back of my cashmere sweater? If any of you spit up Simulac on me, that would be the end of our friendship. Plus, I’d make you pay the dry cleaning bill. Babies should consider themselves lucky that I let them off so easy. My nieces have each excreted various substances on me over the years, and I’ve started college funds for them.”
The gaggle of straight women stared at me in horror, something they seem to enjoy doing to make themselves feel better about their being uniquely positioned to destroy their children’s self-esteem. And then, they retreated to the main conference room to begin strategizing for the shower.
I turned to the boys, and announced that my version of the shower would begin in five minutes at the dive bar downstairs, where we would honor the new tot by sucking on bottles, nuzzling breasts, whimpering about things beyond our control, and spitting up on strangers.
Hey, I wrote a book. You can by Dateland at Amazon.