15 Years From Menopause and My Parents Still Want to Powder My Butt

Dear Birth-Givers,

You need to cut the F-ing cord.

Seriously.

I owe you everything: my life (more than once), my health, my somewhat secure financial state, half the meager possessions in my rat-hole apartment.

However, this does not give you the right to pretend that I am still an accessory in your ecru-drenched, white bread, whites' only, swallow-your-emotions, yuppie universe.


Logging into my AOL account and reading all the subject lines (perhaps more)?

NOT cool.


Calling my banker and asking him to transfer money between my accounts?

NOT cool.


To help you understand exactly how far you've stepped over the line, I've made some signs in big black magic marker, so they'll be easy to spot:





Just so you know: all of the behaviors and life-goals you worked so hard to instill in me have not been a waste.

On my next visit home, I'm bringing a serious, very special someone.

It's a man.
(*whew*)

He's white.
(*gasp! what other choice was there!*)

His family are upper middle class Catholics.
(*well, not Protestant, but at least she got a non-crazy Christian.*)

He's employed as a computer systems analyst with a six-figure salary.
(*Thank god, she came to her senses.*)

He drives a black BMW.
(*Hmmm... What series/model?*)

And he has a great sense of humor.
(*No cursing, we hope.*)


I took this when we were shopping for matching black leather belts with silver spikes:



I know you will give Razor and I your blessing.

If not, that's cool.

We'll just move to Portland with his polyamorous girlfriend and buy a house big enough for his weekend metal band, my wiener dog farm, and Trixzy's pole-dancing workshop.


(Special thanks to L. for passing along the pics. Perfect timing, Puppy.)