Hi, my name is Amanda, and I’m gay married.
You know, hitched to a lady person?
Permanently playing on a softball team?
Yes, I’m one of those people. The ones who have an abnormally high level of excellent comedians among their ranks.
So, you might think, given my “lifestyle choices,” I would be writing this piece to explain why everyone should support same-sex marriage. But you would be wrong.
Because the longer I’m a part of the gay agenda, the more problems I find with it.
Oh, not the usual stuff people complain about, like the crumbling sanctity of traditional something-or-others, or that thing God apparently said that one time. Honestly, unless God comes down from the sky Himself and tells me I won’t be joining Him in up there because I happen to like Taco Tuesday, I’m not going to give that much thought.
But the thing is, there’s a whole lot of other stuff in same-sex partnerships that isn’t talked about. So today, I’m going to bust the closet door open on those – something my people are pretty good at, incidentally – and reveal the real problems in gay marriage. The conflicts. The struggles.
These four points are things I’ve experienced in my own life of strife with my wife. I urge you to seriously consider where this path of sin leads. Don’t make the same mistake I’ve made.
1. We’re still in the closet. Way too much.
Traditional homes are meant for traditional families: A mom, a dad, and two kids. A boy and girl. Named Asher and Madison. Both are straight A students and well-adjusted because they have hetero parents.
These homes are meant for them. They are certainly not meant for two femmes trying to share a master bedroom.
Femmes are queer women who lean towards a more feminine style of dress. Unfortunately, that descriptor fits both me and my wife. Super big problem. We both love expressing our womanhood through cute outfits, jewelry, shoes, handbags, and all that other stuff lesbians have no business putting on their bodies.
But we do it anyway, because we’re difficult and we like to throw the normies off.
Sadly, being difficult like that creates difficulties in our bedroom; specifically, in our one, tiny walk-in closet. The closet runneth over with shoeseths and dresseths and way too many other types of eths. It’s a mess… eth.
What’s society going to do? Build houses that have more closet space just so a few femme couples can enjoy sharing a room without passive-aggressively kicking their partners’ crap aside to make space for new ankle boots?
No. That’s not fair to Asher's and Madison’s parents, who might not know what to do with that kind of space. It’s pretty simple: people like us just shouldn’t be living together.
2. Sometimes I have to kill the wasp.
You know, the big one that flies in through the patio door because the kids didn’t bother to close the damn thing like I’ve asked them to fifty times.
Or the giant gross beetle in the basement. Or the fucking spider next to the bed.
Why am I killing these things? Because I’m “closer.” Yeah. None of this automatically defaults to anyone else because of their gender. There are no bug killers in my marriage with hunter DNA from years of ancestors dragging carcasses back to the cave and grunting over the fire while picking lice out of their beards. And it sucks. Bigtime.
“Women can kill these things too,” you say? Yeah, I know we can. I’m not sexist, okay? The fact that I can kill these things is not the point. The point is, if I had any reason, stereotypical or otherwise, to get my spouse to do it instead, I would. Who wants to make a wasp angry and risk getting stung? Who wants to smush a spider with sharp little spider-y teeth?
No one, that’s who.
But if I had a husband, I would make this his role and use “tradition roles” as the reason for it. At this point in my life, I would even write it into the vows. “To love and honour and kill all the fucking spiders so they don’t bite my wife in the face while she’s sleeping.” That’s what he would say to me before he could put a ring on it.
Sadly, I really like taco Tuesday. Like, a lot. Because of this, I must kill (or nicely put outside, if it’s not winter and/or the kids are watching) anything in my home near my person that moves and doesn’t have a name. That’s what you get for breaking the rules, Amanda. Way to go.
Traditional bug-killing roles get thrown out the window when you’re gay married. Why is this not on any anti-gay-marriage websites so people can get behind the cause? I don’t know. People aren’t thinking big picture, I guess.
3. You can dress us up, but—actually, sometimes you can’t.
“Honey, can you wear the red tie? It’ll match with my dress.”
“Okay, no problem.”
That’s how Asher’s and Madison’s parents figure out what to wear when they’re heading out on fancy date nights. She picks an outfit, he grabs a matching tie. This keeps their marriage intact. Then Asher and Madison are less likely to go through the struggles of a family divorce.
When my wife and I go out, we change outfits three or four times, often with great frustration.
We want to look like a couple.
But not like twins because that would be weird.
But not like roommates who don’t worry about clashing.
And not like people who don’t live together or talk about what they’re wearing, either.
And she can’t wear an exceptionally nice dress while I wear leggings and a tunic, see, because then I look like a slob. And I can’t have my hair done up like a starlet if she’s not going to do the same.
Two ladies going out as a couple? That’s unnatural. You don’t need to read the bible to find that out. If you want real proof, just look at our exasperated faces when we finally arrive at our destination, late, out of breath, and barely speak to each other.
Also, sometimes she steals my scarves. Just saying.
If we could just get married to dudes like normal women, we wouldn’t have this problem. This is the price I’ve paid for sin.
4. It confuses children. Well, my children.
Oh, sure, there are plenty of studies that show how much kids thrive in same-sex households. They all point to unimportant things, like the amount of support and attention these kids get growing up, positive mental health outcomes, higher IQ levels… Just stupid stuff.
Never mind the kids. This is about me.
Mainly, how I must compete for the title of “best mom” for the rest of my life, and how completely unfair that is for everyone involved. Especially me. The important one.
First, do you know what happens when there are two moms raising kids? It’s like the Hunger Games. A child comes into your life and you’re suddenly running for the cornucopia, scooping up whatever you can find: internet recipes, craft ideas, annoying children’s songs and memorable vacation plans. You do this in the hopes of being the winner: the recipient of the “Best Mom Ever” card on Mother’s Day (which, in our household, is “Mothers’ Day” because there are two of us. *Eye roll*)
And then, do you know what happens? You both get a card that says, “Best Mom Ever.”
Both of you! Even though that is not physically possible. You can’t both be the best at something. This isn’t a participation medal, kids. This is the parenting Olympics, and only one of us can get the gold.
This speaks to the confusion of children raised by same-sex couples. Well, it speaks to my children’s confusion, anyway. It’s obvious I’m the best mom.
I mean, sure, I yell more and Zoe makes better food than I do. And she does their laundry. And stays home with them in the evenings more than I do. And lets them pick the movie on movie night instead of insisting on one she “really wants to watch and it’s my turn to pick, so suck it up.”
But I’m the best in other ways I won’t go into because the list is so long and I don’t want to bore you, so you’re welcome.
You know who doesn’t ever have to worry about being “Second Best Mom Ever”? Asher’s and Madison’s mom, that’s who. She could parade around the house in her granny undies while they have friends over and she’d still win the competition because there’s no one to steal her title. Uncontested. She doesn’t even need to let them pick the movie.
It’s fine. Whatever. I’m over it.
Anyway, I hope you found this list as compelling as I have. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to hand out ice cream bars to the kids before my wife gets home.
You know, my gorgeous wife. With the cute dresses and that gorgeous smile...
I think I'll make Mexican for dinner. Maybe tacos.