Porn Cones & Cat Ladies

Kevin Roberts is the President of the Heritage Foundation and chief architect of Project 2025, a blueprint for overhauling the federal government through right-wing policies. Proponents claim these policies would dismantle an unaccountable, liberal bureaucracy and restore the country’s morale through an injection of Christian values; I say it reads as a manifesto on how to homogenize into a theocracy.

“The Constitution grants each of us the liberty to do not what we want,” says Project 2025, “but what we ought.” 

So, the parachute of Christianity will save us from plummeting into a godless wasteland run by libtards? (Insert slow clap.)

The Onion, broadly recognized for its scrupulous journalism, reports Project 2025 advocates for the privatization of immigration through Ticketmaster, a well-armed dog militia, and the replacement of 30,000 federal employees with Eric Trump.

Aside from 900+ pages of satire fodder, Project 2025 was a flop. Whether it failed because it proposes dissolving the Department of Education, criminalizing porn, repealing child-labor protections, slashing Medicare, or restricting birth control is up for debate. Whatever the reason, critics of all political stripes cite wee concerns. It would undermine rule of law, separation of powers, separation of church and state, basic civil liberties, yadda yadda. You know, the small stuff. 

It’s terrible reception meant Trump was forced to distance himself from it, pretending that two-thirds of the authors and editors involved in Project 2025 hadn’t served in his administration. 

*

Though Project 2025 became an instant liability for Republicans, Kevin Roberts was undeterred by lack of support. He adjusted his halo, unzipped his skin, and out stepped Commander Waterford, who sat down and got to work authoring Dawn’s Early Light: Taking Back Washington to Save America, a book about how to save a country under assault by “the Uniparty and its many Skittle-haired minions.” 

Though it’s not yet published, excerpts from advance reader copies of Dawn’s Early Light can be found online. Highlights include arguments that children should not be considered an optional individual choice but a social expectation (or transcendent gift). Reproductive choice is a snake strangling the American family, and IVF, it argues, incentivizes women to delay starting a family, causing problems when “the time comes.” Oh, and this gem: Not having children leads to a culture of despair.

According to Kevin Roberts, evils of modern technology - including birth control, video games, and high-def televisions -  lead us astray from our true purpose, a world in which young Christian men marry young Christian women and the women staying home to cluck after a brood of kids. And those children get to work as soon as they can, since low-skilled, poorly-compensated manufacturing will have returned to the heartland, lol.

Having children is “not an economical calculation,” Commander Waterford writes from his big brown desk, “but an act of faith and love.” 

So, breeders, enough with your silly budgets and family planning. Toss that birth control in the trash and spritz some rose water where it counts.  It’s insemination time, for Jesus!

Thankfully, since most women find this suggestion as appetizing as an unwashed nut sack, and since hostility toward reproductive choice is widely spurned, and because J.D. Vance wrote the intro, the release of Dawn’s Early Light has been delayed until after the election.

*

After reading excerpts from Roberts’ unpublished book, I google his image since my imagination tells me he’s a salamander, and lo and behold, he’s long and smooth, his bald head edged with a power donut. I picture him slinking through wet moss, tongue flicking.

But his pretty eyes trip me up, make me wonder if the picture I’m painting is unfair. Perhaps there’s something warm and likable about him? His eyes are such a sweet shade of blue - a color that reminds me of the veins that surfaced across the stretched skin of my ballooning breasts years ago, right before the arrival of my waterlogged infant daughter. A few weeks prior to birthing her, I discovered delicate blue tributaries flowing toward my areolas, easy to spot on my sun-shy breasts. Pregnancy increases blood volume - that I knew - but I’d not expected to see veining in my tats, which my husband and I lovingly referred to as my “porn cones” once they filled enormously with milk.

To this day, if I hear the squall of a newborn, I can recall the ache that filled my nursing bra, the prickling warmth through my nipples - as if they’d suddenly tripled in size - followed by a desperate need to consume carbs and a quart of water. And the sweet relief of my daughter across my chest, suckling mouth pacified, both of us riding a cloud into a soft, warm nap.

Kevin Roberts eyes are not the tender blue of a brimming breast, I decide. They’re more skim milk, which gives off that weird bluish tint in good light. It’s confusing, skim milk. Stripped of its goodness due to bad science, its subjected to a skimming process that steals important vitamins as well as the milkfat that would better sate us.

*

My pregnancy came at an ideal time. 

I was with a man I loved, who instantly committed to fatherhood once I’d decided against an abortion. I could imagine a future with him. Though children had never been part of my plan, the double lines of the pregnancy test and his warm hand, flat against my belly, felt like an unexpected bend in a road I was willing to explore. I loved him because he was a good man, and for a few other reasons I won’t mention, like his golden clock.

This was my first time being pregnant, which made me lucky, considering the desultory decisions of my youth. My childhood and early teenage years were defined by insatiable curiosity, so when the world of sexual exploration appeared like an orchard full of apples to bite into, I committed. At 16, I asked for birth control and was met with hellfire rather than an awkward ride to Planned Parenthood. Though I was confident enough to reject accusations of my pleasure as unholy, I was inexperienced in navigating the world of healthcare and the internet was not yet an easy friend for this kind of thing. The churchy reaction I got when I asked for help led to a loss of basic agency. In response, I become sexually insouciant into my late 20s, when I finally got sick of apples.

Sorry, Mom.

I suppose some of this behavior could be chalked up to the invincibility that both plagues and enlivens young people, making them both brave and rash. In some ways, I was just acting my age -  curious, explorative, delusional. But there was also a part of me that knew I was making unexamined choices, and continued to make them anyway, repeating the fiction that a slip-up would be anyone else’s fault but mine. 

Most of the men with whom I’d shared a bed in my early twenties were the opposite of daddy material. Though I never boffed a guy who didn’t have a shelf of good books (or at least a decent magazine in the bathroom), they kept their fridges bare and their showers questionably clean. I’m sure that’s not changed for many of them. Many of them are Childless Hat Laddies, balding, thrice-divorced, hard-working, lager-drinking Trump fans, if Facebook tells the truth. 

Miraculously, I did not get pregnant (until I did with my daughter), I never contracted an STI, and I never got entangled with a prick I couldn’t untangle myself from. I count my lucky stars and share this part of my story in case you’re depending on similar stars. If so, you should know a minor can get condoms at any drug store. But accessing birth control is dependent, sadly, on where you live.

*

As Melinda Gates said, “Contraceptives unlock one of the most dormant, but potentially powerful assets in development: women as decision-makers.”

Novel fucking idea.

*

Reading excerpts from Dawn’s Early Light makes me reflect on my growing group of child-free friends who are professional women, many whom have traveled the globe and share food porn that leaves me salivating. I consider their tastefully decorated condos and well-tended porch gardens, their groomed dogs and efficient cars, the opera and antique glassware. Many of these women seem calmer than the harried parents who are my peers. Less strung out. I’ve never once heard any of them complain about lacking familial fulfillment, and many of them clearly relish their role as auntie.

I also have friends whose eyes fill with tears when they speak longingly about the children they’d hoped to have and couldn’t. It’s a sadness that feels untouchable, and I wonder how they feel about the hateful rants of the “sinfulness” of the frozen embryos of IVF. How they feel about being disparaged for not having children. Being accused of causing a country’s despair for not having what they wanted most.

I think of my friends who are single moms - members of a group whose commonality includes an astonishing work ethic - and set aside my domestic complaints to bow down. Ummm, no need to bow down, a friend who is a single parent scolded me, rolling her eyes. I have to work this hard, and I’d do anything for the kind of support you get, so how about you shut it and buy me a drink? 

I also have friends who are Christians, and who move through life with faith, praying through hardship and loss, but who don’t expect everyone else to understand the world in the same way they do. They are the friends who pray for me when I’m troubled, and because their care is easy and their hearts humble, their prayer easily translates to love.

*

Cat lady. 

It’s a term that’s been reclaimed, at least in the circles I run in, and is generally accepted as a nod to good taste in literature, knowledge of the best lunch spots, and a tendency to keep the company of regal friends that purr. Recently, I watched a pink-faced pundit get apoplectic about cat ladies, spittle flying from his mouth, but had to laugh when I found myself in agreement with him. Cat ladies are definitely guilty of moving certain books to the front of the library, where they’re better displayed, in order to reach the tender hearts of children who are not their own.

They are the opposite of a burning book.

One more reason to love them.

*

For me, having a child transformed my relationship with the man who became my husband in ways that have driven us apart as much as yoked us together. Though our daughter enhanced our life in ways too plentiful and too annoying to share (see FB, lol), as working parents flinging ourselves from one obligation to the next, we’ve become enmeshed in a way that can feel impossible to separate. 

In our worst moments, I wonder if we’re anything but a blob of caretaking and bickering, losing entire afternoons to sorting out childcare, navigating dubious insurance coverage, or magicking protein into a meal that our kid will eat. We quarrel over divvying up negligible free time - stupid - but we’ve not stopped. I resent my dependence on his salary, which is twice mine, since three years of my resume growth was stunted during the newborn and toddler years, and like many women in hetero marriages, I still lag behind. 

I’d once read that “marriage is one long conversation.” That makes sense to me, though I’d add in “lots of muttering, stints of hiding in the bathroom with your phone, and hyper-focusing on the sound of your partner’s breathing.”

*

Sometimes, I think domesticity would feel less overwhelming if the realities of parenting were more freely discussed, but burying the truth under the floorboards like a tell-tale heart and smiling insanely seems to be protocol. It’s a sore spot for me, since I’m an external processor who loves to vent about the endless demands of the homefront, so when selflessness is championed as the highest good (especially in regards to motherhood), I withdraw in disgust. 

If you don’t get what I’m saying here, read the posts on social media every Mother’s Day, and count how many times you see a husband write to his wife something like, “Thank you for bending into any shape without complaining, for always putting your family’s needs ahead of yours, we couldn’t survive a day without you!”

Heh. I bet.

To borrow from Matthew Remski of The Conspirituality Podcast: “The sleeplessness, the attempts to console the inconsolable, the endless housework, the impossible ethical decisions, the scarcity of privacy, the work of being the support for a young tortured mind that triggers the tortured heart in yourself” - can be draining, even excruciating.

Life as a parent - and I’ve heard only the wealthy say otherwise - is not your own. 

But yes, of course, OF COURSE it’s beloved work. And we’d never choose otherwise! We shout this from the mountaintop, defending ourselves against an accusation no one has made, assuring everyone knows HOW MUCH WE LOVE OUR CHILDREN. And it’s true! We look at them and love so hard we lift momentarily in the air. We exchange knowing winks and nods with other parents to let them know that deeply, in the center, in the bloodiest, goodest place in our heart, we carry the secrets of the trade and they are ours to savor. The bigger the bags under the eyes, the deeper the commitment. Our child rushes into our arms, their sweet heads tucked into our neck, and we are not our own. We are theirs. 

Complaining about the realities of domestic life can come off as indulgent, or negative, I’ve been scolded, especially for other parents who would rather not think about how tired they are, or talk about how much they sometimes resent their partner, but sadly, we have to cancel plans again, we’re desperate for adult time but we’re so exhausted, the baby didn’t sleep well, and tomorrow is another insane day.

How are you?

Oh, so busy. So busy. Insanely busy.

*

Tangential, but worth saying: The hard work of raising a child has given me insight to how and why women in shitty relationships - including abusive ones - can feel stuck. How many times have we heard the onslaught of criticism aimed at a woman with children, with a pittance of income or none at all, who stays with her asshole of a man? How many times have we been forced to endure the unimaginative scrutiny of those who have yet to reflect on their own hardships and entanglements, but who can’t help but lecture anyone who will suffer them the details of “what they would do” in that situation?” 

Bah, too many fucking times. 

*

I recently listened to Matthew Remski argue that JD Vance’s accusations of “childless cat ladies” caused an uproar because it tapped into deeper, more hidden troubles with the American family, including jealousy of those who are child-free in a country that does little to support families. It made me recall how common it is in my acupuncture clinic to hear new parents bemoan the sudden lack of idle time, how they come to realize its importance to sanity only once it’s gone. But it’s not polite to stare with envy at the young man under a tree with a book, the couple having Bloody Mary’s at brunch, the older woman nibbling a pastry and sipping a latte, taking her sweet ‘ol time. So we don’t. We swallow it.

Remski also talks about how a certain part of our country has become addicted to making up stories about “childless” people, framing them as a growing army of drag queens kicking off their heels and climbing atop desks to twerk for kindergarteners, lobbying administration for litter boxes in school bathrooms, and insisting on more representative porn in school libraries, which is so stupid I will not give it another second.

*

Many parents believe their children are gifts from God, and so it follows that they should give thanks for their blessings and work harder if they find themselves struggling to keep up. Sometimes, they’re asked to pretend that raising a family with little support is not capable of transforming them into a husk, no matter how hard they love, no matter how close they hold their nose to the grindstone.

From Matthew Remski:

“I first heard the phrase [family values] in the late 1980s - and then the Bush’s really took it up - and of course I knew it stood for socially and fiscally conservative positions, but it confused me with its vagueness. I mean, what families were they talking about? It made me think of the opening line of Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, “All happy families are alike, but each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” And the joke there of course is that he’s going to go on for 800 pages describing an unhappy family, but in such relatable terms that it becomes impossible for any reader to imagine all those happy families somewhere, all alike, as being more than fantasy.

But it doesn’t take much for that fantasy of “happy families” to reveal its shallow nature. One learns about gendered labor, about how deeply siblings can hate each other, about intergenerational abuse. One learns that “stranger danger” is a massive coverup for the fact that child abuse, and child sexual abuse, happens within the family for the most part. It becomes clear that the “satanic panic” was a massive backlash against women with children moving into the workforce, and through Marxist literature, one can learn that the nuclear family is the social reproductive unit of the bourgeoisie. And if one is paying any attention at all, one learns that those who crow loudest about family values usually have a lot of family problems.

At this point it seems to me that the appeal to family values does the same labor that all conservative rhetoric does - it tries to conceal a very unpleasant truth. It’s a deflection from the fact that families are often all we have and all we know. They are crucial to our survival and identities, and are also often brutal, non-consensual power constellations from which we can never fully escape. How much must the freedom-loving American hate that? And so, what do you do to the walls of a prison you can’t quite name for the shame of it? You wallpaper them with stories and myths.”

*

“The other night I ate at a real nice family restaurant. Every table had an argument going.” (That’s a George Carlin joke.)

Families are complicated, amoebic. For some, they are hard landings, for others, soft. Some are halved by politics, forced to reckon with the fact that the personal is political. Most could use more help, especially those supporting aging parents, the sick, loved one with disabilities. It’s the type of care that can easily become full-time work, in addition to one’s full-time work, in addition to the full-time work of raising a family.

*

In one dreamscape, policy that prioritizes the American family is not represented by a glass of skim milk, weirdly bluish, undrunk on the kitchen counter. Instead, it's an enormous porn cone with rivulets of blue, ready to spill forth its full-fat manna. Of course, if someone wants skim milk, eww, but fine. Let’s just agree that making skim milk the only choice is obnoxious, yes? And if you’re lactose intolerant, Cat Lady has various nut milks in her mini fridge, which she’ll happily share if you ask nicely.

*

The Porn Cone Playbook translates into a country in which women have autonomy over their bodies, regardless of geography. The constitutional right to abortion is returned and codified. Contraception - of any kind - is simple to get and free. Motherhood is not championed as a journey of endless self-sacrifice. Paid family leave and sick leave are unquestioned benefits. Wages are fair, groceries are affordable. Healthcare looks like healthcare rather than a rigged game of subterfuge and exploitation. Good medical attention does not require a part-time job of self-advocacy. Grandparents do not have to work past retirement and can help with the grandkids after pickleball. There’s clean water and air, enough food, solid public schools, green public spaces, comprehensive healthcare, and safe housing. Children do not die from lack of dental care and individuals do not go bankrupt from a cancer diagnosis. People with disabilities are not required to fight tooth and nail to get through an average day. Mental health support is quickly arranged and destigmatized. Children are not slaughtered in their classrooms. Addiction medicine does not lag behind the research by 50 years. People do not stick Fuck Your Feelings campaign signs into dead lawns, and instead let wildflowers grow tall for the bees. The big global family stewards a planet we’re lucky to inhabit, since she is the most important Mother of all.  

*

Sometimes, my husband and I get so enmeshed, something strange happens, and we transform from a gelatinous blob into cold, distant planets. 

Go for a walk? I ask him, to which he always agrees.

On those walks, sometimes we find the same sun, strong enough to reorient us in the direction of warmth, and only then can we talk about our individual needs and consider creative solutions, which means we must first forgive each other for wanting more. 

*

On one of those walks, after the kind of discussion that will cumulatively become “the long conversation of marriage,” my husband and I were booted out of a somber mood when we discovered we were dealing with the same ridiculous truth.

After a chaotic summer schedule, our daughter was back to school for her first day, and she’d been there approximately 75 minutes. Rather than relishing this moment of rare, child-free time, we were both preoccupied by just how much we missed her.