I won’t go into details, but some a$$hole actually called me a “breeder” today.
I was sick, tired, and toddler-mommying at the time, so it just got to me and I lost it and cried a lot and retold the story to a zillion people. I made an official complaint, etc.
Now that I’m more calm (and suffering from a cough-induced insomnia), I realize the irony. Isn’t “breeder” a term we gays use to sometimes, albiet offensively, refer to the not-gay crowd? I always thought it was a bit of a funny term. Like, thank god those other people are here to continue the human race. Funny, too because of course lots of gay folk are breeders, as well. Then I thought of those signs some people had outside their homes when I lived in a less cosmopolitan part of the country, “RABBITS: Breeders, Live, or Fryers.” Finally, it reminded me of when I used to do web searches for the word “insemination” and I’d come up with all of these agricultural sites with helpful tidbits about how to knock up my cows.
So this ass, obviously a card-carrying member of the “She-Man Women Haters Club,” actually had a point. I am breeding. I did use a bull from another farm to get knocked up. And when I give birth, I know his type (the parent-haters, I won’t link because it is truly disturbing, but there are entire websites dedicated to actively hating parents and children) will refer to me as a cow. Whatever. In true gay form, I now want I maternity shirt now that says, “BREEDER” in Frankie Goes To Hollywood font across my big breeding belly.