Don’t Whine, Ditch That White Boy (#259)

There’s plenty of whining on social media.

My favorite GOP whine, which I find hilarious as a former Washingtonian, comes from current Trump/ Republican staffers in D.C. The Trumpers complained that they are harassed and ostracized by locals; instead of touting their proximity to power as Obama staffers did, they vaguely mumble about working for the government when asked about their jobs. (I love you, D.C.!)

A similarly entertaining whine comes from the 62% of white American males who voted for Trump: women hate them. Women won’t date them. Women will actually ditch them in the middle of a date, upon learning that they are GOP supporters. Women have divorced husbands who voted for Trump.

Meanwhile, on Twitter and Instagram, my fellow white women are also whining, especially those who are college-educated and have advanced degrees. It’s apparently quite hard to find a white partner who is educated, motivated, unthreatened by a woman’s success, shares domestic chores, and doesn’t cheat.

That squares with what I remember back when I was dating.

It also squares with what I’ve heard from other Mom-friends at book clubs or playdates: their white husbands suck.

Take Nurse Mom, who supported her wanna-be restauranteur husband through at least three failed business ventures while having three children. Her white husband does no childcare and thinks nothing of dropping his dirty clothes right next to the hamper. Not only is he not doing laundry, he can’t even be bothered drop his clothes six inches to the right, into the actual hamper.

There’s Marketing Mom, with two children, insane work hours, and husband who was supposedly a contractor. Or a chef. Only he did neither of those things. She cooked and payed for childcare while he was working out with friends. Also, he’s been remodeling their house for four years. It’s not done.

Cop Mom managed all the cooking, cleaning, and childcare while working full-time for the LAPD. Her LAPD husband ditched her and the kids every weekend to watch sports in either Vegas or at the Elk’s Lodge. And of course he thought they should have a 3rd kid, because it wouldn’t impact his life at all. (I thought she should take his gun and shoot him.)

I could add horror stories about the husbands of Dr. Mom, Teacher Mom, Yoga Mom, Realtor Mom, or Screenwriter Mom. Some of these moms have since divorced and are so much happier. Some are just waiting for their kids to leave the house so they can bolt, too. Some —okay, ONE—is still convinced her husband is fabulous.

Every single one of these women expressed envy and amazement when they learned that my Chinese-American husband:

  • Handled 80% of the marketing and cooking.
  • Changed 80% of the diapers when he was home.
  • Took care of his own child and pets when his wife had plans/ conferences/ needed a girl’s weekend away.

“You’re so lucky,” these wives of white men would marvel.

Initially, I would agree with them (and sometimes pour salt in their wounds by telling them Andy can also dance and is handy around the house).

But eventually, it got old.

The last time Cop Mom bitched about her do-nothing husband and how lucky I was to have Andy, I went off.

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” I snarled.  “I’m smart. Smart enough not to limit myself to the white man dating scene, which is literally littered with entitled misogynists who think they’re God’s gift. Instead, I found the son of immigrants whose parents worked hard and expected him to do the same. His mother didn’t pick up after him–she was busy working. His father didn’t raise him to think he was entitled to a good job or hot women. Andy spent the weekends doing chores until he got a job and he worked his way through college and grad school. And then he worked on himself and worked out and learned to cook and dance. So you’d better believe that when I meet a guy like that, who laughs at my jokes and thinks I’m amazing, I’m hanging on to him. I’m only lucky that I met him. Everything else is because I’m SMART!”

I may have yelled that last sentence because Cop Mom was backing hurriedly out of the room. Too much truth is hard for some people. (Especially cops, but that’s another post.)

I know various readers are going to argue that they know/ are married to decent white guys. Like my friend JM (yes, JM, your husband didn’t make the “Shitty Men in Hollywood List,” and he cooks, I know, he’s a keeper). For those insisting that there are some hard working white men who treat women well out there, you aren’t wrong. Of the 1/3 of them that didn’t vote for Trump, maybe 1/3 of them will cook. Maybe another third will handle childcare and do dishes and MAYBE 1/3 of those men aren’t gay.

The numbers are not in your favor, my fellow American white women.

But kudos to all of you who’ve kicked a misogynist, racist Trump voter to the curb.

Next up, find yourself an immigrant, or the son of immigrants. Or at least a person with some melanin, for chrissakes. They’re less likely to support Trump. They’re increasingly likely to be educated, whereas white men are not. They haven’t been raised by Moms, Dads, and American media to think that the sun shines out of their white ass.

And in the immortal words of Lin Manuel Miranda:

Cop Mom eventually filed for divorce. Last I heard, she was dating a Latino.

Salute to Stupidity (#256)

Growing up in Washington, D.C. means no other Independence Day celebration will live up to your childhood memories. For a relentlessly political, cynical city, they throw a heck of a party.

Photo by Ron Engle

First, there’s the National Independence Day Parade. This ain’t no small, hometown parade where the local horses and fire trucks are the stars of the show. This is A Historical Spectacle. There are hundreds of Uncle Sams (some  in balloon form or on stilts). Bewigged Founding Fathers abound, as do Paul Revere impersonators. Military bands–past and present–are pressed into service, sweating in wool uniforms and 100 degree heat. My sisters and I once counted seventy-five Betsy Rosses. (We would’ve liked some Deborah Sampsons better, but we cheered what female historical figures we could get.) Continue reading Salute to Stupidity (#256)

Don’t (#247)

Elizabeth Warren, Presidential Candidate, has claimed to be Cherokee for years.

After Trump questioned her claim in about the most racist way possible, Warren took a DNA test which shows a possibility of Indigenous ancestry 8-10 generations ago.

The Cherokee Nation was very unhappy with Warren’s claim and her DNA test.

White people everywhere said, “I don’t get it?”

So here’s a super abbreviated primer for my fellow white people, culled from recent real-life conversations, Facebook battles, and Twitter discussions.

Continue reading Don’t (#247)

Red Flags (#226)

You know what I was excited about when Andy and I bought our house?

Putting up a flag pole. I couldn’t wait to fly seasonal house flags.

I envisioned a flag with flowers for summer, an autumn flag with falling leaves, a black cat for Halloween, and Christmas flag with a polar bear. Of course I would fly the Stars & Stripes for Independence Day. Continue reading Red Flags (#226)

Still We Reap (#225)

In my AP history class in Northern Virginia, we held an annual debate about the Civil War.

I know, right? What’s there to argue about? Slavery bad. Confederacy wrong. I thought captaining the team for the North would be a slam dunk.

I forgot I was in Virginia, Confederate flag central. Continue reading Still We Reap (#225)

The Brilliance of the Teen Brain (#216)

I feel old. Yes, I did just have a birthday. No, I’m not going to tell you which one.

My knees started making noises. The orthopedist assured me that I’m young for creaky knees; it’s probably an unfortunate combination of too much dancing and volleyball. I feel decrepit anyway.

Even so, it’s not my knees that made me realize I’m old.

It’s my brain. Continue reading The Brilliance of the Teen Brain (#216)

White Silence (#196)

White Supremacists rallying in Charlottesville, courtesy of Molly Ruth

The first time I ever heard the n-word, I was in Charlottesville, Virginia. I was nine, walking with my mother and stepfather. Two kids ran past. One called the other a word I’d never heard growing up in Washington, D.C., despite having classmates and friends of multiple races.

My mother pressed her lips into a thin line, then said, “I hate that word.”

My stepfather agreed.

I asked, “What word?” Continue reading White Silence (#196)

Marching on Washington (#170)

In case you missed it, there was a Women’s March on Washington the day after Donald Trump’s inauguration. (No, I can’t bring myself to call him President. Since facts no longer matter, I guess I don’t have to.) The organizers had a permit for 200,000 anti-Trump protesters.

Over a half-million people showed up, with pink hats and hilarious signs.

I was one of them. Continue reading Marching on Washington (#170)

Broken Hearts & Pink Hats (#169)

I’m not a fan of pink. I scorned the traditionally feminine color as a child, insisting that all my clothes had to be blue. This was not easy for my parents, thanks to gendered marketing. Blue dresses were tough, and a girl’s blue bathrobe was downright impossible. They gave me a boy’s blue bathrobe. I loved it.

I wanted a blue winter coat. In the midst of a bitter divorce, struggling financially, my dad didn’t have time to hunt for a blue coat (this was before Amazon). So I wore my blue bathrobe to school. Continue reading Broken Hearts & Pink Hats (#169)