What the Hell is Wrong with Dove Chocolate? (A Brief History.)

By Ann

This is an old grievance. I have been asking this question of myself and others since I first noticed the bizarre messages inside of my Dove Chocolate wrappers.

By no means am I the first person to notice this. And by no means will I be the last. But while many write off Dove’s wrappers as nothing more than slightly misguided branding attempts, I believe that Dove knows exactly what it’s doing.

For decades now, Dove Chocolate has been executing a masterful three-pronged marketing scheme, born of Hell itself. And they’ve been doing it right under our noses.

Allow me to explain…


For those of you who have seen The Witch, I call this the Black Phillip stage: “Hello, consumers. Do you like the taste of… unprotected sexual encounters?”

Actual advice from Dove chocolate wrappers:

-“Wear short skirts.”

-“Flirt with strangers.”

-“Temptation is fun… giving in is even better.”

-“Stir your sense of pleasure.”

-“Indulge your every whim.”

-“Wink at someone driving past today.”

At first, you may be thinking, “Boy, this seems like strangely intimate advice to be receiving from my chocolate. ” But what you may not have realized is, Dove is playing the long-game.

While those other chocolate-selling chumps were trying to cast a wide net, ensnaring as many consumers as possible, Dove thought: “No. We don’t need them all. We need loyalty, dedication, a select following that will heed our every wrapper. There’s a word for that, isn’t there? Ah, yes. A cult! A cult that doesn’t know it’s a cult. That we’ll lure into getting themselves or others pregnant, and who will feed their babies delicious Dove—thereby imbuing them with a bloodthirst for chocolate at an even earlier age. As the generations pass, Dove’s zombified horde will continue to breed, growing ever larger, wearing even shorter skirts and flirting with even more strangers!! Yesssssss. Soon, SOOOOOOOOOOON.”

And so, Dove’s marketing team sat back, twiddling their thumbs, waiting to unveil their newest tidbits of wrapper-advice: “Skip your pill today!” and, “The Withdrawal Method—Works Like a Charm!”

But then they realized: wait. Wait a second.

Our plan is contingent upon our unsuspecting zombie-worshippers having lots of babies. Maybe even a family. But you know what’s distracting? Families. Loved ones.

We can’t have our minions surrounded by love, feeling quietly fulfilled, and leaving Dove Chocolate by the wayside.

This brings us to…


Again, Dove’s marketing team leapt from the shadows and took to their white-boards: “But how can we make our brainwashed candy-serfs love Dove more than their ever-expanding herds of children? How can we compete with the affection of a cherished loved one?”

They knew their cultists loved Dove. But what they realized was, it had to be more than that. They had to fall in love with Dove. They had to develop an all-consuming romantic attachment, sure to baffle themselves and others, to an edible object.

And how to accomplish that?

A voice called out with the answer: “I’ve got it! Quick, hit on them! Hit on the chocolate-chattel!”

And a new wave of chocolate wrappers was born.

More actual Dove wrappers:

-“You know what? You look good in red.”

-“You’re gorgeous.”

-“You have a great laugh.”

-“Chocolate loves unconditionally.”

-“Chocolate won’t let you down.”

-And last, but certainly not least: “Chocolate. Always your Valentine.”

To that last wrapper, they considered adding, “ALWAYS. DO YOU HEAR ME, CHRISTINE? YOU WILL NEVER ESCAPE DOVE, CHRISTINE.”

But they thought that might be tipping their hand too much.

So, again they sat back, and watched and waited and lurked. With delight, they saw their cult fall head over heels for Dove, brimming with false confidence—wearing red and laughing—and, all the while: swelling and bloating, stuffing chocolate into their children’s faces and their own.

It was all so easy.

But. That was just the problem. It was too easy.

As it turns out, Americans take almost no convincing to become emotionally dependent on chocolate. If they’d fallen so quickly for Dove, what was to stop them from—*gasp*—falling for another? What if some flashy new chocolate came along to sweep them off their feet?

There was only one way to ensure they’d never leave.

Which brings us to…


“We have to destroy them.” Dove’s marketing team realized, “It’s come to this. It’s not enough for them to be lovelorn zombies. We need ego-shattered, chocolate-dribbling husks. We need them to shipwreck their own lives, and to grasp at Dove as if it were the last plank in the vast, roiling ocean that threatens to consume them. It’s the only way to be sure that they’ll never have the courage to leave.”

It wouldn’t be hard. They’d do it gradually—sneak in questionable advice that would mount with each wrapper. By the time their victims realized they were destroying their own lives, it would be too late to salvage them. A grim task, but it had to be done. It was for the good of Dove Chocolate.

Thus was born their newest wrapper initiative, the ruthless deathblow in their three-pronged reign of chocolatey terror.

Yep, still actual Dove wrappers:

“It’s okay to be fabulous AND flawed!”

-“Sleep late tomorrow.”

-“Wing it.”

-“Quote your dad.”

-“Calories only exist if you count them.”

-“Don’t settle for a spark… light a fire instead.”

-And perhaps most cruelly, once they were confident that their prey had been ensnared in a web of helpless despair:

“I don’t know what else to tell you.”

They stopped just short of, “Quit your job!” and, “Medicine is a trick!” Also, “Stop seeing your therapist,” and “Dove hears great things about day-drinking.”

Because, again, subtlety is important to Dove.

But there you have it.

The plan was complete. Dove had founded their following, bred and brainwashed droves of Dove-crazed addicts, and then… crushed them all in its velvety palm.

The rest of us look right past Dove’s scheme, hiding in plain sight.

We open a Dove wrapper and raise an eyebrow. Maybe we think, “Oh, Dove, you sure are a little strange sometimes!” But then we eat the chocolate, and we don’t give it a second thought—just as Dove intended.

After all, Dove’s nefarious trap would never work on us. We’d never be stupid enough to follow advice printed inside a piece of chocolate.

But then, that one I read the other day was actually a little inspiring.

And, I don’t know, I do look good in red…

The Great Cat Wars

By Ann

There is a small space: on my desk, behind my laptop, under my lamp. Little did I know, that in the 3,000+ square feet available in our house, this itsy bitsy less than a square foot would become the site of what can only be known as The Great Cat Wars.

It only seems fair to properly introduce the warring parties.

Contender #1: Ollie

Ollie, draw me like one of your french girls

Contender #2: Sophie

Sophie noticed the spot first.

(Please excuse the quality of the following images. I’ve done my best, but the lighting in the spot is terrible. Objectively, most things about the spot are terrible.)


Over time, Ollie noticed Sophie noticing the spot.


It is worth mentioning that, if Sophie hadn’t noticed the spot, Ollie never would have noticed the spot. He generally prefers beds and couches, and you know, actually comfy spots. He does not especially like the spot. However. He does not want Sophie to have the spot.

There is a long and sordid history of Ollie coveting ALL the spots. In response, Sophie has become somewhat creative:

Not pictured: her current favorite spot, which is inside our bathroom cabinet.

Sophie has proven quite a match for Ollie in hand-to-hand combat if she cares to fight, but frankly, she’d usually rather hunker down in garbage spots, because she’s a pretty big fan of garbage spots anyway. Still, Grant and I do not appreciate Ollie encouraging her garbage-troll tendencies. So, if she’s sitting with one of us, and he tries to harrass her, we send him on his merry way. Otherwise, we try not to interfere too much as long as Ollie isn’t being a mega-jerk.

It’s a thin line. And, through trial and error, Ollie has found exactly what that line is. If Sophie is sitting with us, he may not bite her or otherwise attack. But no one said he couldn’t sit next to her. Or stare at her. Or ever so gradually scoot closer and closer until neither one of them is comfortable.

This does not always work on Sophie. She can wait it out, and eventually, he’ll give up. She can nudge him back, and possibly make him slightly more uncomfortable than he is making her. Or, perhaps most deviously, she’s learned that she can occasionally poke him into biting her, which she knows will get him kicked out.

Most often, it is a Cold War. A war of glaring and nudging and patience. And it is waged daily, on my desk.

The most recent battle, as told via Ollie’s inner monologue:


Hello, Sophie. Fancy seeing you here again. I’m so excited to see you here that I shall bestow completely innocent kisses on your forehead.


Oh, hi, cat-mom. Just saying a considerate hello to my favorite cat-sister.


Look how much I love my cat-sister. I love her so much I’m going to lick the inside of her ears relentlessly because I know how much she enjoys that.


Oh, did you happen to scoot over, Sophie? Here, let me join you.


AHAHAHAHA, SIMPLE FOOL! You’ve stepped to the side, leaving room for me to lie down. Now, the light of glorious heaven shines down upon me and you have been shunted into darkness. DESPAIR, CAT-SISTER! DESPAIR IN DARKNESS!




Hmm? What’s that over there? Has Sophie… moved on? So soon? What is that she’s playing with?


Ooh, neat! A spider!



This is usually how it goes: I start with a cute cat on my desk… I end up with nothing. And so, while sometimes Ollie wins and sometimes Sophie wins, inevitably, the real loser of the Great Cat Wars is me.

A Beginner’s Guide to Accidentally Alarming Your Spouse

By Ann

What you will need:

  • A profound level of exhaustion
  • A series of disconcerting decisions
  • Your unsuspecting spouse



  1. Get home after long hard day.
  2. Immediately retreat to bedroom.
  3. In your hurry to get into bed, forget to turn on lights.
  4. Set yourself up with a heating pad and prepare to watch TV.
  5. Be so tired, forget to turn on heating pad.
  6. Sit there so long the sun sets and now you’re in the dark.
  7. Hope your Amazon firestick crashes right as spouse comes in to check on you.
  8. Spouse finds you sitting in the dark, lying on an unplugged heating pad, staring at blank TV screen.
  9. Mission accomplished.

Houses Fix Themselves, Right?

By Ann

A couple weeks ago, our thermostat broke.

I noticed when it got really cold.

My husband also noticed when he got home from work, and it was really cold.

Him: Sweetie, I think there’s something wrong with the thermostat.

Me: Oh, yeah. It’s broken.

Him: What do you mean it’s broken? Did you put new batteries in it?

Me: Yeah. And they didn’t work, so…

Him: So… were you going to do anything about this?

Me: I mean, I put on a sweater.

Him: No. If the thermostat’s broken, we need to get it fixed, right?

Me: Oh. Right.

Him: Because that’s what normal people do. When things break.

Me: Right, right.

Then, we called out the repair person, and I had another conversation with eerily similar themes…

RP: I see the problem! See this battery plate? It’s caked over with some residue, so the new batteries aren’t able to transfer the charge. I’ll just clean that off, and it should be good as new! (Cleans it off. Thermostat turns on.) Yep, there we go! Good as—hold up, what’s this? (Thermostat’s numbers glitch out so that it’s impossible to read.)

Me: Oh, yeah, no worries, it’s been like that.

RP: What? How long have you been using it like this?

Me: Not that long. Just, um… a few…

RP: Days?

Me: No…

RP: Weeks?

Me: Months. Several months.

RP: Are you serious? How can you even read this screen?

Me: Well, you can’t really. But see that half a number that shows through there? If you look at that, you can kind of guess.


Me: And then, if you get it wrong, you can definitely tell in an hour or two.

RP: Um.

Me: Because boy does it get uncomfortable. You know?

RP: Right. That’s because your thermostat is broken.

Me: I see.

RP: It’s been broken for several months.

Me: I see.

RP: You need a new thermostat. Because I can’t do anything with this.

Me: I see.

The good news is we got a new thermostat. So problem solved, right?

But then, a couple days later, my husband is looking out the window…

Him: Hey, is there something lying on the ground over there?

Me: Hmm? Oh, yeah. That’s been there.

Him: What is it?

Me: I dunno. I guess a piece of the house.

Him: A piece of the house.

Me: I assume so.

Him: How long has that been there?!

Me: I dunno. At least a couple…

Him: Days?

Me: Um. No…


It occurs to me, there might be some sort of trend here.

Haikus to My Ineptitude

By Ann

Because, as we know,

Being a grown up is hard.

Harder when you’re dumb…

If I could count the

Countless times I found too late

My shirt was backwards.

Out of socks again.

I could simply do laundry,

But we know I won’t.

Now I work from home.

What is this so-called sunlight

Others talk about?

Cookies for dinner

Is not a healthy choice, but

Nothing can stop me.

Yet another plant

Gifted to me, so unwise,

Soon I will kill you.

Don’t judge me, Netflix.

Of course I am still watching.

You know this damn well.

I cannot get up.

There is a cat upon me.

Yes, a good excuse.

Spring Fashion Trend Report!

By Ann

Hey there, fashionistas! I’ve got the latest inside scoop for you, as relayed straight from my recommended Facebook ads.

That’s right, folks! The sun is shining, the birds are chirping, and society’s got some weird ideas about what you need to put on your body. It’s time for a spring fashion report!

Brace yourself, because this hot, new trend is going to take your breath away. Literally.

Intrigued? Tired of breathing anyway? I sure hope so, because the latest 2017 trend is…

A woman in a bikini. That same woman wearing a corset.


But wait, you may ask yourself, didn’t we already do that one? And wasn’t it terrible?

Yes to both! But nothing says fashion like a retro trend everyone forgot for a reason. Time to bring Victorian back, bitchlets!

Victorian in a corset, looking sassy. It reads, "YASSSSS! GET IT GURL"

Don’t take it from me. Take it from Waistshaperz.com!

The waist training practice came to prominence in Victorian times. Wearing a waist cinching corset, exercising and eating a healthy diet can radically reduce your waist size; instantly giving you a beautiful sexy silhouette while permanently getting rid of unwanted inches around your waist.

WaistShaperz high quality reshaping waist shaper is a unique latex material which attacks unwanted fat and impurities within your body. The thermogenisis created within your body will allow your body to rid itself of harsh toxins and impurities, through perspiration. The tight compression will help to reduce food volume intake which will help achieve the healthier practice of smaller meals…

I’m not sure I understand the exact mechanics of how latex is supposed to attack unwanted fat, but Waistshaperz said this corset would cleanse me of “impurities” not once but twice—and threw in a misspelled version of the word “thermogenesis” to boot, so that sounds like science to me!

Now, just to be clear, if you really want to try to lose weight while sweating, it might be more efficient to, you know, exercise. And, heck, if you’re specifically intent on holding your body in an uncomfortable position for so long that it starts to quake and attack your sweat glands, I hear good things about yoga.

HOWEVER. If you want to slim down your waist, but you don’t want to risk being seen as one of those unseemly sporting women, gallivanting about in their new-fangled trousers—why then, corsets have got you covered! You don’t have to go jogging, lift weights, or come within a fifty-foot radius of those trouser-wearing trollops! (Because some of us bitches are tryna stay marriageable up in here, you know?) All you’ve gotta do is shove some crap out of your waist’s way—and there’s no easier way to do that than to squeeze your silly, stubborn body into an ever-tightening vice!

That’s just science.

Before and after of a womans organs, having been crushed by a corset. Reads, "YASSSSS! GET IT SCIENCE"

Besides, if you insist on keeping ALL of your organs in their original places, let’s face it—you’re being inflexible. Your insides need to keep up with the times. What could go wrong?

Except that you might completely debilitate your body to the point that you can’t even sit upright. But when has that ever happened?

Victorian with such a tiny corseted waist that she cant sit up on her own.


Well, okay, that might happen. But you’ll be so hot, you won’t even need to sit up. Men are going to take care of that fine ass all the way up until you’re, say, 35 and your looks start to go. Don’t worry, though, if you snag a good one, he won’t abandon you. He’ll just convince everyone you’re hysterical and lock you in an attic to live out the rest of your days. Free room and board, though, so close enough—amirite?!

Man tightening dismayed Victorian womans corset for her. Reads, "YASSSSS! Get it patriarchy"

Happy Women’s History month, fashionistas!

Oh, and if you really want to be a trendsetter, look ahead to the next retro craze, sure to pop up in fall 2017: footcrusherz.com.

What do you need walking for anyway? If you’ve been training your waist properly, you already won’t be able to stand!

You’re Right, Fox News: Alpha Women Are Unable to Love

By Ann

The other day I was scrolling through my newsfeed, and I came across the headline: “Society Is Creating a New Crop of Alpha Women Who Are Unable to Love.” Immediately, I knew two things: one, it was going to be a Fox News piece; two, it was going to be by my most favorite author in the whole world, Suzanne Venker.

Readers may recall that Venker and I have tangoed before, back when I read her equally thoughtful article, “The War on Men.”

Just like her previous article, this one took me on a magical voyage of discovery. See, even though she’d explained it to me before, I’d forgotten that equality is for idiots. It is literally impossible to sustain a relationship in which a man and a woman bear equal weight, share honest opinions, and find compromises together.

Don’t believe it? I didn’t either! Therein lies the journey of discovery.

Ready? Ms. Venker begins with an anecdote about her mom and dad’s troubled marriage. Let’s jump in together, shall we?

Despite my mother’s allegiance to my father, she never quite mastered wifedom—for one reason: she was wholly unyielding. With my mother, everything was a fight. Everything was “No” unless she determined it was appropriate to say yes. 

Ruh roh! Now, all we know so far is that Ms. Venker’s parents didn’t have the best marriage, and we’ll just have to wait and see where this is going. But, right off the bat, I have a bad feeling: it sounds like Ms. Venker’s mother was familiar with that pesky concept of “consent” all the kids keep yammering about… I’m betting that leads to some trouble!

If my mother wasn’t the one who made the decision, the decision couldn’t possibly be good. Every so often she would appear to cede to my father’s wishes, but only if she happened to agree with him.

Yep, there’s that problematic word “agree.” I knew consent was going to get them into trouble! But it sounds like it might have been more than that. Ms. Venker, are you saying that your mother had to make every decision and was unopen to compromise? That does sound like genuinely damaging behavior. Just to double check: that’s only okay if the genders are reversed, right?

Indeed, my mother was the quintessential alpha wife. An alpha wife micromanages, delegates and makes most or even all of the decisions. She is, quite simply, the Boss.

Whoa there. Whoa. A woman as… the Boss?! If the very idea weren’t spooky enough, you’re really freaking me out with that capitalization.

Alpha women aren’t exactly new, but they were once a rarer breed. Today they abound. There are several reasons why, but it’s in large part due to women having been groomed to be leaders rather than to be wives. Simply put, women have become too much like men. They’re too competitive. Too masculine. Too alpha. That may get them ahead at work. But when it comes to love, it will land them in a ditch.

I don’t know about you, fellow reader, but I shudder to imagine ditches full of alpha women. I can see them now: climbing on top of each others’ heads in their manly hiking boots to catcall any unsuspecting fella who wanders too close. “Mmm, jangle them tiny balls, man-baby! Yeaaaah, that’s what Alpha Mama likes! Get over here so I can express my opinions and say ‘no’ to things I don’t want to do!”

Every relationship requires a masculine and a feminine energy to thrive. If women want to find peace with men, they must find their feminine—that is where their real power lies. Being feminine isn’t about being beautiful or svelte, or even about wearing high heels (although those things are nice). Being feminine is a state of mind. It’s an attitude.

Well, hold the ding-dongin’ phone. It is?! You mean I can wipe off this lipstick and kick off my six-inch heels, and it’s still possible to be female? Darn, I wish I’d known that before breaking my ankle trying to look “svelte.”

In essence, being feminine means being nice. It means being soft instead of hard. And by “nice,” I don’t mean you should become a mouse.

Oh! Not a mouse. Maybe like… a squirrel? Is that too big? … Sexy chipmunk?

Men love women who are fun and feisty and who know their own mind! But they don’t want a woman who tells them what to do. 

Gotcha. Know your own fun and feisty mind, but try to keep it a secret. Real women know how to have a good time… on the inside.

Jackie Kennedy once said there are two kinds of women: those who want power in the world, and those who want power in bed. American women have become laser-focused on the former and have rejected the latter. In doing so, they’ve undermined their ability to find lasting love.

Now, this here is a fresh perspective. Instead of trying to obtain any power “in the world,” women should focus on… increasing their sex appeal. HOW COME I HAVE NEVER HEARD THIS IDEA BEFORE??? Someone tell the past ten thousand years of human history, ‘cause this is gonna blow their minds.

I’m wondering, though, what exactly does that mean, “power in bed?” Does that mean that, in between BJs, you might use your feminine wiles to secretly leak some of those fun and feisty thoughts into your man’s brain? And then, if he feels like it, he might do one of the things you secretly implanted, thereby granting you some sort of power in the world? I dunno, it seems like we might be sticking a middle man in there. And by “there,” I mean our vaginas. But I’ll have to defer to Ms. Venker here: maybe it’s more feminine to take an indirect route.

All a good man wants is for his wife to be happy, and he will go to great lengths to make it happen. He’ll even support his wife’s ideas, plans or opinions if he doesn’t agree with them. That’s because a husband’s number one goal is to please his wife. If he determines his wife cannot be pleased, that’s when the marriage is in trouble.

Wow. Now this is blowing my mind a little. See, ‘cause when I read that paragraph, my first impulse was to do crazy things like replace “man” with “person” and “wife” with “person” and “husband” with “person.” And then it would’ve sounded like pretty decent marital advice to me. But you’re right, Ms. Venker, it’s much better if it’s gendered and only applies one way.

Men are just so much simpler than women. Not simple as in dumb, as is often portrayed in the media. Simple in that they have far fewer needs than women do. What men want most of all is respect, companionship and sex.

OH! Yes, now I see why that marital advice had to be gendered. It’s because men are very different from women. Women hate respect, companionship, and sex. But we do like chocolate, flowers, and spinning elaborate webs in which to ensnare our prey. (Keep that last one under wraps, though, okay? It doesn’t sound very “nice.”)

If you supply these basics, your husband will do anything for you—slay the dragons, kill the beast, work three jobs, etc.

Hear that, ladies? It’s time to power-hump your man to knighthood! Or to premature death from trying to work three jobs simultaneously. It may sound harsh, but remember, it’s your wifely duty.

Now I know what you’re thinking: that I’m putting everything on you. I am, and I’m not. Your husband is 100% responsible for his own actions. If he makes stupid choices, such as getting repeatedly drunk, it’s his job to own up to that behavior and stop it. Same goes for his emotional outbursts, if he has them, or his not coming home when he said he would. Or even his having an affair.

I’m relieved it isn’t 100% on me, because, to be honest, Ms. Venker, this was starting to sound like a lot of work. So, just to clarify, it’s fair to be upset with a man for being an alcoholic, screaming at you, vanishing into the night, or running into the arms of a possibly more feminine woman. (As we all know, these are fundamental temptations for the species, man.) But not if he bosses you around, or fails to provide you with basic companionship, respect, and affection? These standards seem fair.

What I am saying is that men tend to follow women’s lead. Your husband’s actions are more often than not reactions. He’s reacting to something you said or did, or to something you didn’t say or didn’t do. He’s reacting to your moods, your gestures, your inflections and your tone. That’s how men are. 

Right. Because he’s so simple. But not, as you clarified earlier, a moron. No one’s insulting a man’s intellectual capacities by suggesting that he can’t come up with his own actions, moods, gestures, inflections, or tone. These are complicated inventions of the wily lady-brain that men just mirror back at you. That’s how men are.

Don’t just take this from Ms. Venker. I’ve long related to the men in my life as though they were full-on idiot cave men. For instance, I’ve noticed that when my husband gets home from a long day, if I say, “Hello, honey, I made you a nice roast and am naked under this apron,” he’ll say, “Yes, good. Man pleased with woman-wife. Man, too, will be naked.” But one time, just to see what would happen, I said, “Hello, honey. I had a long day at work and was too exhausted to make us dinner. Would you mind fixing us something?” And then he said, “Man hate cooking! Man no understand food! HOW MAN USE KITCHEN? WHAT MAKE FOOD GOOD?? SIMPLE REQUEST MAKE MAN BRAIN EXPLODE!!” Then he stormed off to his study and drank himself into a coma. That was a bad night. And I see now that I could have avoided it.

Another way to think about the male-female dance is to consider the game of chess. In chess, the king is the most important piece but also one of the weakest. He can only move one square in any direction—up, down, to the sides, and diagonally.

The poor inept darling. I’m guessing this is one of those things we women should keep under wraps. If I explained to my husband that he was an inept plaything, I’m pretty sure he’d say something like, “MAN SHOW YOU INEPT! SMASH!!!” Who knows what would come next? Maybe he’d seek out an affair with something more “feminine,” like a pair of boobs stapled to a doormat.

The queen, however, is the most powerful piece. She can move in any one direction—forward, backward, sideways, or diagonally. And how she moves affects how he moves.

He’s also strongly influenced by horses, castles, and bishops. You must be careful never to let him near horses, or your man will also start whinnying, and you’ll never heard the end of it.

As a woman, you can respond to this dynamic in one of two ways: you can resent it, or you can embrace it. I used to resent it. I’d think to myself, How can I possibly make sure my husband isn’t negatively affected by my every mood swing? I’m a Pisces, for God’s sake! My moods shift with the wind! Plus, why am I responsible for my husband’s reactions? The whole thing seemed like a whole lot of pressure, not to mention unfair.


As a result, I embraced my alpha personality as though it were a baby in need of protection. If my husband chose me, obviously he likes that about me. Why should I have to change? Who would I be if I changed? And how could I be someone different, even if I wanted to?


But my alpha ways were bumping up against his alpha nature. We were like two bulls hanging out in the same pen together, and there was too much friction. 

Oh! Goodness, Ms. Venker, I see how that thought chain backfired on you! Wow, to think it almost tricked me, too! I would expect as much from a novice like myself, but how could you, paragon of gender relations, have wandered so far astray? You know you can’t be a bull, Ms. Venker. God made you to be a sweet submissive cow!

And because I had zero interest in my husband adopting a more feminine role, I set about to become the feminine creature our culture insists women not be.

Right, so, submissive cow? Or are we coming full circle back to the not-a-mouse-but-maybe-a-squirrel thing? Are you positive that’s what society’s telling me not to be?

And here’s what I learned: It’s liberating to be a beta!

Oh boy, permanent deference! Sounds great!

I’m an alpha all day long, and it gets tiresome. I concede that I thrive on it; but at the end of the day, I’m spent. Self-reliance is exhausting. Making all the decisions is exhausting. Driving the car, literally or figuratively, is exhausting.

Boy, yeah. Thinking stuff and doing stuff make me sleepy, too. So, are you telling me we can just hand the wheel over to man-bull? Wait, can he come up with the gestures he’ll need to drive the car all by himself? Or should we teach him without him realizing that we’re teaching him?

It took me a ridiculously long time to get it. But once I did, once I accepted that the energy I exude and the way I approach my husband directly affects his response and behavior, I changed my tune. 

Right, right, I forgot we were already controlling him with our every action.

And when I did, something happened. The tension disappeared overnight. Just like that. Well, almost like that. It was a lot of stop and go at first. First I’d handle something the “right” way—i.e. by not arguing with him, or by not directing his traffic, or by being more service-oriented—and marvel at the response.

List of “right” ways to “handle” husband: don’t argue, don’t advise, be his servant. But wait, you’re sure this is easier? That servant bit is starting to sound like a lot of work again…

Then life would get busy, and I’d resort to my old ways. Sure enough, I’d get a different response.

Uh oh, one of those “MAN SMASH!” moments, huh?

So I’d make a mental note of how I messed up and make sure to get it right the next time.

Get it together, you unsexed harpy! Bow, BOW before your Testicle King!

Eventually, it became second nature.

Sounds healthy.

It’s like weight loss.

OHHH, finally a metaphor I can relate to!

Once you realize that diet and exercise is the only way to stay fit, and that sugar and carbs create fat, a light bulb goes off in your head. You’ve unlocked the code to keeping your weight in check. Even if you fall off the wagon (and you will), you’ll know what to do to get back on track.

I can’t wait to unlock the code to taming my man-bull, just like I’ve unlocked the code to carbohydrates. Just gotta keep myself on that wagon of sexy, fumbling servitude.

That’s what it’s like to love a man.

Thank you so much for explaining to me how to love a man.

Once you learn how, you’re good to go. You have all the tools you need. But you have to use them.

By tools, I assume you mean a cookbook, secret agenda, and maybe also a vagina, which I’m going to move we rename to something nicer like “man-appeasement hidey-hole.”

Ms. Venker, Fox News, what else can I say? Hats off. You never cease to enlighten me.

I’d ask my Husband-Overlord to thank you on our mutual behalf, but I don’t think I’m allowed to ask him for things anymore. At least, not outright. Not to worry, though, I’ll get right on secretly guiding him into coming up with that idea and thinking it was his own. MAN-CEPTION! Am I right?

Note: This contains the vast majority of Ms. Venker’s stunning article. I did make some cuts for length. If you’d like to witness it with your own eyes, you can find it here.

A Mother-Daughter Outing to the MVA

By Ann

Yesterday, my mom and I went to the MVA together. Here’s how that went.

After waiting for two hideous hours:

Mom: Hi, we want to transfer the car title from me to my daughter.

MVA Rep: You don’t have the same last name. You need proof of relation if you don’t have the same last name.

Mom: Yes, I’m sorry, we didn’t realize that until we got here. But we were hoping, since her middle name is my last name, and that’s all written out on her driver’s license, and also because the address on the car title is the same as her home address, that might work as proof?

MVA Rep: But you don’t have the same last name.

Mom: That’s correct.

MVA Rep (To me): Why is your name different?

Me: Huh? Because my last name is my Dad’s—

MVA Rep: Are you married?

Me: Yes, but—

MVA Rep: Oh, so your name changed when you got married.

Me: No. This has always been my name.

MVA Rep: Always since you got married?

Me: No. Always.

MVA Rep: So you’re not married?

Me: No, I am married—

MVA Rep: Do you have your marriage license?

Me: Uh, no, why would I need my—

MVA Rep: To confirm your name change.

Me: But I didn’t change my name when I got—

MVA Rep: Hold on, now I’ve got to go look up your marriage license in the computer.

(Walks away for incredibly long amount of time.)

MVA Rep (Finally coming back): Well, we don’t have your marriage license in the computer.

Me: Right. Okay, but I’m sorry, what I’m trying to say is that it wouldn’t matter whether or not you all had my marriage license, because that has nothing to do with my name.

MVA Rep: So you’re not married?

Me: No, I am, but—

MVA Rep: If you’re not married, I have to look up your birth certificate.

(Starts to walk away again.)

Mom: Wait, but on her birth certificate, my last name is different than it is now. Does that matter?

MVA Rep: Your name doesn’t matter. Her name needs to match yours.

Mom: I’m sorry? My name on the birth certificate doesn’t matter, or—

MVA Rep: No. I’m checking her birth certificate. Your name doesn’t matter.

Mom: But my name needs to match hers?

MVA Rep: Correct.

Mom: But my name doesn’t matter?

MVA Rep: Correct. I have to go look up her birth certificate.

(Walks away for incredibly long amount of time. Again.)

MVA Rep (Finally coming back. Again.): We don’t have her birth certificate either. You’ll need to come back.

Mom: Okay, so it doesn’t matter that her middle name is the same as my last name?

MVA Rep: Let me show you something. You see how your last name starts with a “C” and you see how your last name starts with an “F,” they’re not the same last name.

Mom: We understand that we don’t have the same last name.

MVA Rep: So, since she’s not married—

Me: I am married!

MVA Rep (Completely unfazed): You need to bring in her birth certificate. Next!

What a stellar outing. Mom and I can’t wait to do this all over again next week.

Late Night Chats

By Ann

Anxiety: Hey, bud, wanna think about the fuuuuuture?

Me: No. It’s 1:30am.

Anxiety: That’s the perfect time to think about the fuuuuuture, when everyone else is asleep and no one can hear you scream.

Me: Come on, Anxiety, this is a played out trope. We don’t have to do this. Mix things up. You could be on my side this time?

Anxiety: I am on your side, buddy! I just want what’s best for you.

Me: Okay. Great.

Anxiety: And what’s best for you is considering all the ways everything you’ve ever done or not done could come back to destroy you.

Me: I’ve got an idea. Let’s focus on deep breathing: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. 6, 5, 4, 3, 2—

Anxiety: I’ve got another idea. Everyone you’ve ever loved is going to die.

Me: Oh, come on!

Anxiety: What? I don’t want them to. I’m just saying, they definitely will. Every single one. That’s the circle of life, you know.

Me: Yeah, okay. Probably not for awhile, though.

Anxiety: Well, you don’t know that. They could die any time.

Me: They probably won’t.

Anxiety: That’s arbitrary optimism. Life is a hideous soup of chaos. You could wake up tomorrow and one of your parents could have died in the night.

Me: I don’t think that’s—

Anxiety: What would you do without your parents? That would be so traumatic.

Me: We don’t have to think about this right now.

Anxiety: You’ll have to think about it sometime. There’s no way your parents will outlive you. Unless…!

Me: Do we have to jump to—?

Anxiety: You could die, too. At any time. You could be walking outside and BAM, TREE BRANCH TO THE HEAD! That could kill you, you know.

Me: I don’t think that’s going to happen.

Anxiety: Remember, hideous chaos soup.

Me: I know it’s not impossible. Just, statistically speaking—

Anxiety: Oh, you want to talk about the most statistically likely ways to die? I know lots about that. Heart disease, cancer… you could get hit by a car! Do you know how dangerous driving is? If you die young, that’s probably how you’ll die.

Me: Well, I really can’t control that, so let’s just hope it’s quick and that’s the end of that, okay?

Anxiety: Okay, you’re right. Let’s focus on things you can control. Since you could die at any time, I hope you’re satisfied with how you’re living each and every day. Would you say that you’re 100% satisfied?

Me: No one is 100% satisfied.

Anxiety: Someone better than you is.

Me: Okay. Settle down.

Anxiety: I can’t settle down. Every second you’re lying here not working on your goals is another second all your dreams could die.

Me: I should sleep now, so I can do better work tomorrow.

Anxiety: Sounds like quitter-talk to me, but if that’s what quitter-you thinks is best…

Me: I do think that’s what’s best. So just shut up, okay? You’re not helping. Shut up.



Anxiety: Hey, what time is it?

Me: I don’t care.

Anxiety: Wow, now it’s past 2am. That’s a lot of time you’ve just been lying here.

Me: I’m doing my best.

Anxiety: Lying here doing nothing…

Me: I’m trying to sleep!

Anxiety: Tick tock, motherfucker.

Me: Stop it. STOP IT. Deep breathing: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. 6, 5, 4—

Anxiety: Pretty sure you’re supposed to count to 8.

Me: It doesn’t matter what I count to. 1, 2, 3—

Anxiety: Did I mention everyone you love could die?

Me: That’s it. I’m playing goddamn Candy Crush.

Quiz: Have You Got the Jingle Balls to Replace Santa?

By Ann

Look, no one wants anything bad to happen to Santa, and I’m not saying anything will. But let’s face it, in 2016, nothing is safe and everything is terrible. It’s time to hedge our bets. Because the last thing this god-forsaken year needs is for some hideous happenstance to cancel Christmas.

In the event something does happen and we wind up in some kooky situation à la The Nightmare Before Christmas or The Santa Clause, we’re gonna need someone to fill Santa’s shoes. That’s why it’s incumbent on each and every one of us to ask ourselves: if Santa goes down, do I have the jingle balls it takes to fill his giant red stretch pants?

Well, there’s only one way to find out, and it’s by taking this quiz:

  1. Do you have a broad face and a little round belly, that shakes when you laugh, like a bowl full of jelly?
    • A.) Why, yes! I don’t think you’re ready for this jelly!
    • B.) That is not how I would describe my current face or belly.
    • C.) I’ve put on 15 pounds since the election, and I’ve got enough problems without you fat-shaming me, you jolly-ass fuckers.
    • D.) I consist of spiraling black ether, so not really.
  2. Do you believe in peace on earth and good will towards men?
    • A.) Of course!
    • B.) I hadn’t really thought about it. Sure, why not?
    • C.) I don’t believe in anything anymore
    • D.) With every action I take, I actively seek to destroy humanity.
  3. Would you describe your eyes as twinkling?
    • A.) Wink, wink, dazzle, dazzle!
    • B.) Uhhhh, maybe in the right light…
    • C.) Does shiny with tears count?
    • D.) My eyes have a flat, smooth luster—vermillion stars of blood replete with knowledge of what’s to come.
  4. Complete this sentence. All I want for Christmas is:
    • A.) You, my two front teeth, or to make others’ dreams come true.
    • B.) Pokemon Sun & Moon dual pack! J/K, already bought it.
    • C.) Hillary Clinton to hold me while I sob.
    • D.) To turn the earth inside out, so that the top is magma and the core is the screams of the innocent.
  5. How do you feel about candy canes?
    • A.) What a festive winter treat!
    • B.) They’re all right if you’re in the mood for sugar topped with red dye.
    • C.) They’re terrible. Everything is terrible.
    • D.) Your feeble candy spears won’t save you from the reaping.
  6. Let’s hear your best Santa laugh.
    • A.) Ho, ho, ho!
    • B.) Hee, hee, hee!
    • C.) *Long windy sigh.*
    • D.) *The sounds of disemboweling*
  7. Which of the following are the correct names of Santa’s reindeer?
    • A.) Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen, & sometimes Rudolph.
    • B.) Rudolph! Are there more? Oh, uh, Dasher, Dancer, Prancer, Fancer, Dunder, Blunder, Mustard… wait, did I say Rudolph?
    • C.) Prozac, Wozac, Fussy, and Dead Inside.
    • D.) All are known as Cerberus. The ringleader is known as Shiny Cerberus.
  8. What’s your favorite Christmas song?
    • A.) “Here Comes Santa Claus”
    • B.) I know this one: Die Hard!! Oh, you said song.
    • C.) I hate Christmas songs, and this entire quiz.
    • D.) *The sounds of disemboweling, this time followed by slurping*
  9. If you had a big sack, what would you fill it with?
    • A.) Toys!
    • B.) Corgis!
    • C.) Opium.
    • D.) Inside of said sack, there will be things that must not be named, covered in words that must not be read, written in a tongue that must never be spoken.
  10. How would you approach climbing down a chimney?
    • A.) My body is made of magic. I’d float down and land without a scratch.
    • B.) Look, I’m no James Bond, but I know my way around a suction cup.
    • C.) I’d fall. I’d just fall and come what may.
    • D.) I would not enter the chimney from above, but from beneath the earth. The cackles of maddened worshippers would greet me. Those I do not consume, I will enslave.


Okay, moment of truth! Count up your answers.


Mostly As:

Wow, no doubt about it, you’re a great candidate for Santa! Are you sure you aren’t already Santa? In any case, there’s no way we’re letting such a qualified back up slip through our hands. We’ve traced your IP address, and the government is on its way to collect you.

Mostly Bs:

In a pinch, you might be an OK Santa. No one thinks you’re going to do that well, but then again, people were somehow okay with Tim Allen. So what do we know?

Mostly Cs:

We can’t really tell if you’d be a good candidate for Santa, but we can tell that you’re extremely depressed. We don’t blame you. If it’s any comfort, you’re certainly not alone.

Mostly Ds:

No. After careful review, we do not think you would make a very good Santa. On the bright side, we might suggest alternate career paths such as Cthulu, one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, or President of the United States.