Umm…Waiter, There’s a Hair in My Politics

OK…so far, I have stayed far away from the Taco Haven brouhaha because a lesbian taking this one on is real cliché.

Think about it. Let that joke sink in. Yes? And…go…

Here’s the deal: I love tacos.

(That’s what she said.)

But, seriously. I love them.

They encompass my major food groups: carbs and cheese. Boom. Right in a neat little package.

Give me a potato, egg, and cheese taco, and you will make me very, very happy.

Now, you may disagree with this. Your favorite taco may be potato, egg, and bacon. A. Because bacon is scrumptious, and B. because you’re lactose intolerant.

I, on the other hand, am a vegetarian, so bacon is not so much something that I eat.

But here’s the deal: there are more things we agree on in this taco – potatoes and eggs – than there are on which we disagree.

With me so far?

Now, let’s say we’re out for breakfast. You order your taco; I order mine. Inside mine, however, is a hair. Game over.

I mean, a hair…? In your taco…? That’s not OK.

And while you may offer me a bite of your taco…

(That’s what she said.)

I can’t eat it because of the stupid bacon.

And, really…I can’t stop thinking about the hair. Now, even you’re thinking about it. The whole restaurant is now abuzz with the fact that I had a hair in my taco. Everyone is looking at his or her taco and wondering if it has a hair in it, too.

See…a hair taints everything you eat. Could be the most magnificent taco EVER, but you find a hair in it, and the whole experience is overshadowed by that one single hair.

So, now, the leap…

The “men in girl’s bathrooms” argument is the hair.

Borrowed from San Antonio Express News.

Borrowed from San Antonio Express News.

We’re going along, having a perfectly legitimate conversation (read: taco), when BOOM…a hair.

We have a fundamental disagreement about bacon and cheese. You think the nondiscrimination ordinance somehow took away your religious freedoms, and I think your “religious” argument is based on prejudice. I won’t change your mind; you won’t change mine. You’re lactose intolerant, and I’m a vegetarian.

But you should be just as disappointed in the hair in our discussion as I am. It ruins the ENTIRE taco – the potatoes aren’t good anymore; the eggs aren’t good anymore; hell…even the brilliant tortilla is tainted.

Actually, this is the state of our politics today.


We don’t discuss the things we agree on anymore. We can’t even dialogue on that which we disagree because a small faction of our community dropped a hair into the conversation, and we keep talking about that.

  • Abortion Hair: 20-week abortions.
  • Gay Rights Hair: Pedophilia.
  • 2004 Election Hair: Swift boat.
  • 2008 Election Hair: Obama was born in Kenya.

There are more, but you get the idea. Hair.

It’s become the thing that everyone is talking about, and it shouldn’t have been in the taco in the first place.

So, let’s get the hair out of our tacos and go back to just having breakfast together – maybe not at Taco Haven ‘cause this is really more about their support of the hair – but somewhere else.

We live in San Antonio, for crying out loud. There are plenty of taco places. I know some great places to get a taco.

(Again…that’s what she said.)


Year 2

Two years ago, there was a phone call – “There’s something wrong with your father – his breathing is labored, and he’s not responding to touch or sound,” and then, approximately 12 hours later, he quit breathing. I watched it happen. I was on the phone with my brother, who was incredulous, “Well, can’t you get them to stop it?!?” And my voice – only it didn’t sound like me – “He’s dying…there’s no stopping that.”

It’s fuzzier now. Two years later.

I don’t remember everything like I used to.

It’s been two years, but the anxiety still creeps in.  The sadness started a week before this day rolled around. It’s not as horrific as it was last year, but it’s still there nonetheless. I was told that your body reacts to grief. These “anniversaries” are inside you. You’ll be walking down the street, and you feel something is wrong and realize, “Oh! Today is THAT day.”

So…I knew it was coming. I tried to prepare myself better this time around.

I’ve been preoccupied with this non-discrimination ordinance in San Antonio and the utter lack of compassion I’m reading from those who oppose it. I find myself really missing my dad on this issue.

My ultra-conservative father would have found this type of dialogue so non-helpful.

Here’s the deal: my dad and I never spoke about the fact that I was gay. To him, it was an unimportant piece of who I was. I was smart, and I could make him laugh. These were the important pieces. Who I loved – although clearly important to me – didn’t matter to him. I mean, he wanted me happy, but he wasn’t concerned who was contributing to it. This was true for my whole life. He didn’t want a relationship with my partner; he wanted a relationship with me.

A discussion around someone’s private life didn’t interest my father. Hal Cox, the serial husband, knew he had no business telling people whom they could and could not love. A man who had been married and divorced four times was always so shocked by the discussion around gay marriage – “Let them be as miserable as the rest of us” was his favorite argument. Umm…thanks, Dad…?

Now, two years after his death, the tide has changed. More and more people are talking about “the gays.” More specifically, they’re discussing my sex life. That’s really what it is. The people who are so anti-gay are mostly concerned about the things that happen within the confines of my bedroom (or the kitchen or the couch – let’s face it, straighties, gays are a lot like you.)

My father would be mortified. I am his daughter. Not only did my sex life never enter into his mind, the fact that other people are concerned with it would have made him so uncomfortable.

However, this societal swell of gay talk would have forced us to have a conversation.

I never talked to my dad about being gay because it was unimportant to him.

But who I am is important. And before my father died, I was never able to be fully authentic with him.

While being gay is not something that defines me, it certainly makes up who I am. And while my sex life is not now, nor will it ever be, your business, whom I love is important. Because the person I love makes me better and happier and more open and centered. And really, that’s kind of important. And while it is entirely too sappy – my father would quickly deflect and change the subject – it is important to know about love. Perhaps, if we led with that, we would be less inclined to preach hatred.

ImageSo, on this, the two-year anniversary of his death, I am saddened that he is gone – there is, and likely always will be, a hole in my heart where he was. I know he still sees me as smart(ish), and I probably still make him laugh (and his was a good laugh), but I am also certain that he sees me happy (or gay…see what I did there?) and fully authentic.

An Apology

Confession: churchies make me nervous.

For clarification, a “churchie” is someone who self-identifies as “born again,” a “follower of Christ,” someone who “found Jesus,” and/or anyone who describes him/herself as “religious.”

I am not proud of this confession, but I share it now as we move into hearings on marriage rights, which is generally argued on religious beliefs.

Here’s the deal…churchies are the people who say things like the following:

On marriage equality: “Basically marriage will be completely destroyed, families will be destroyed, children will be hurt by this. And freedom of speech and freedom of religion, including in the pulpit itself, will absolutely be bulldozed over,” Mathew Staver, Dean of Liberty University’s School of Law.

After the Aurora, Colorado massacre: “We don’t have a crime problem, a gun problem or even a violence problem. What we have is a sin problem. And since we’ve ordered God out of our schools, and communities, the military and public conversations, you know we really shouldn’t act so surprised … when all hell breaks loose,” Mike Huckabee, former Governor of Arkansas.

On marriage equality: “Anything other than a man marrying a woman is two disturbed people playing house,” John Hagee, senior pastor and founder of Cornerstone Church.

After the Newtown massacre: “The question is going to come up, ‘Where was God? I thought God cared about the little children. God protects the little children. Where was God when all this went down?’ Here’s the bottom line, God is not going to go where he is not wanted,” Bryan Fischer, American Family Association.

These are churchies.

Let’s be clear: I grew up Catholic. My grandma’s best friend, a man I deemed my “other” grandfather, was a Catholic priest. I was 10 when I received my first bible. I was wrestled out of bed every Sunday for the Catholic dance – stand, kneel, sit, kneel, wine, kneel, sit, stand. I never felt connected to God in a Catholic church. I remember feeling closer to God during conversations with my grandma than I ever did sitting in a pew, robotically reciting the prayers I had learned in CCD class.

After my parent’s divorce, my mom took us to a Lutheran church. It was here that I went to church camp, sang in a choir, and joined a youth group. Church was fun and filled with volleyball and lock-ins. It was also here that I began hearing about “totally twisted perverts” – the homosexuals who could destroy life as we knew it.

I stopped going to church when I was a teenager. I haven’t returned. Well, I go when required – weddings, funerals, the occasional family outing.

Churches (and the churchies) make me nervous. And here’s why…

The God I have come to know – the one that asks me to be the best me – is not the God that these churches (or churchies) speak of. That God is scary. He believes we are all sinners – hate the sin, not the sinner. He is vengeful and spiteful. He shows his wrath by helping kill innocent children or desecrating cities due to homosexuality. The God of the churchies needs a mediator to hear you – a priest who can tell you what your punishment is for the sins you have committed. Churchies stand outside military funerals and claim their God kills soldiers because “God hates fags.”

I am not trying to get into a religious discussion – that can’t be done in a blog or on Facebook. I am happy to go to coffee and have a legitimate dialogue, as I have been known to do with many a Christian.

What I do want this blog to be is the start of a change. For me.

This is an apology to you, my Jesus lovin’ Christian friends. I apologize that I allowed these churchies to cloud my assessment of you. I am sorry that I let a select few corrupt my views of so many.

It is not your fault that a few of you are extremists. It is not your fault that a select group of you seem unloving or judgmental. It is not your fault that the loudest (and generally angriest) of you are generally the only ones heard.

Perhaps it’s because only recently have I actually met a few of you that helped me redefine what “churchie” means: that being a Christian means loving all and being the best you. It means having a relationship with God outside of your relationship to others. It means being comfortable enough in that relationship to not need to make others feel like their relationships are less than. Being a real Christian means that you spend your days being the best you and understand that others need to be the best them.

So, while you may not catch me at church every Sunday, what you will see is me being my best me.

More importantly, you will see me change…’cause we are nothing if we can’t evolve.

It’s taken me a while to figure this out, but I know that you will forgive me…it’s kind of what y’all do.

PS. Heard of the Reformation Project? It’s kind of awesome.

The Boy Scout Challenge

Dear Mr. de los Santos,

I accept the challenge – made in your recent editorial in the San Antonio Express News – to help the Boy Scouts of America accomplish incredible things for young people and the communities we serve.

Indeed, I have looked through your list of merit badges and believe I can be of service to you in more ways than one.

  • I rescued and now care for five dogs, (don’t ask), making me the perfect person to help a young scout receive his Dog Care Merit Badge.
  • I own my own business, whereupon I work with nonprofit organizations on capacity building, increasing their ability to effectively serve more people, so I can certainly help answer questions and offer guidance for an Entrepreneurship Merit Badge, and may even be able to help a scout tackle your Citizenship in the Community Merit Badge.
  • I have been on stage since the age of five and spent four years teaching young children and teens the art of theater, so I kind of have some expertise for the Theater Merit Badge.

These are just a few, but I didn’t want to lose out on the Humility Merit Badge. (I don’t think there is one, but there should be.)

gay badgeHere’s the problem: I can’t actually accept your challenge, Sir. I can’t help the Boy Scouts of America help “young people grow into good, strong citizens” because your organization has a policy banning me – an “avowed and open homosexual” – from participating in your organization.

To believe that this conversation about gay rights – rather human rights – takes our focus away from our nation’s children and what is in their best interest shows how out of touch the Boy Scouts of America Corporation is from our nation’s current narrative. It is difficult for me to understand, then, how your organization is able to help young people grow at all.

When you reduce the conversation to one that is about doing what is best for our nation’s youth, then I ask you to be prepared to answer questions about your organization’s disservice to the very population it purports to represent.

Every day that you uphold your discriminatory and simpleminded policies is yet another day that your organization shows your scouts that it is acceptable practice to blindly discriminate against a sector of society based on misinformation and a lack of understanding. This does not do what is best for our nation’s children.

Every day that you proclaim to be an organization that provides youth “programs of character development and values-based leadership training,” while upholding a policy that asks for the “open” and “avowed” homosexuals to stand down, is a day that you show that lying about who you are is better than being open and accepting about who you are. This does not do what is best for our nation’s children.

To teach discrimination and a lack of acceptance doesn’t bring up good, strong citizens, but rather a group of young men who are close-minded, lack diverse life experiences, and, quite frankly, miss out on meeting some amazing individuals that can teach them incredible things about the world.

Your organization is currently at the center of a nationwide debate – not because of your work with young people, but because of its discriminatory policies and its unwillingness to see them as such.

Please don’t reduce this conversation to an Either/Or Proposition – either you’re concerned with the best interest of children or you want to talk gay rights. As a good, strong citizen, I believe this is a Yes/And Proposition. I am both concerned with the best interest of children and believe that means they need to understand human dignity.

So, I offer you a challenge of my own: I challenge you and the Boy Scouts of America to rethink your concept of “good and strong citizens.”

I argue that in an effort to be both good and strong, we should know that there are people who are “different” and good at the same time. I argue to be good and strong, we should learn from people and embrace diversity. A good, strong citizen questions antiquated policies and learns from, then rectifies, mistakes.

Let’s lead by example – a good, strong example – and truly help accomplish incredible things for young people and the communities we serve.

Coming Out

For this blog, I pulled out the trusty, sanctimonious soapbox. I feel good on it…makes me feel taller.

I was brushing my teeth, counting…as usual.

“1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10.”


“1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10.”


“1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10.”

I did this in the front and back of each side of my mouth. Brushing teeth is a counting thing.

I sometimes count out things. Particularly in fives. It makes me focus and slows my mind. I’m OK with this.

I finished my ritual, spit the toothpaste out, came up from the sink, and caught my eyes in the mirror. I was staring at my reflection when I started to laugh. Laugh is a strong word. I scoffed – yeah, scoffed – and whispered to myself, “Holy shit. I’m gay.”

Just like that. It struck me.

Now, at this point, I was 25 and married. To a man. So, this revelation at this time was…umm…less than awesome.

But the immediate calm I felt when I said it out loud was amazing.

We all have coming out stories. (Well, not ALL of us, but at least 10% of us.) Some of them are significantly more interesting than mine – nothing like a story that starts with brushing your teeth and revealing you’ve got a bit of the OCD.

I don’t share this as a “Coming Out Story.” I’ve been out. By 26, everyone I knew was aware that I was A Gay. I don’t hide it now. (Well, some might say I couldn’t if I wanted to – my hair gives it away. The lesbian faux hawk…what are you gonna do?) I don’t announce my gayness, rather I simply live my life as normal because there is nothing unusual with who I am…well, I’m unusual, but not because I’m gay. I mean, quite frankly, my need to count things is more unusual than my gayness.

So, why share it?

The “Coming Out Story” has haunted many the gay. Most recently, Jodie Foster, in what is arguably the most rambling speech I’ve heard in a while, came out as “single” during the Golden Globes, prompting a slew of responses, including one from George “It’s OK To Be” Takei. Rupert Everett, (remember him? “My Best Friend’s Wedding”…L.O.V.E. him) said do not come out, come out wherever you are.  Victor Garber is all sorts of gay.

The problem with the “Coming Out Story” is that it doesn’t change you, but it can change everyone around you. By that I mean, you don’t change, but the perception other people have of you might.

In fact, I recently had a coming out of sorts with a couple of pals. The conversation went something like this…


Pal #1: (fishing in her chip bag for the crumbs) Are you gonna be gay?

Me: Umm…what?

Pal #1 looks at Pal #2 concerned. Pal #2 encourages her to ask me again.

Pal #1: Are you gonna be gay?

Oh, I forgot to set the story. Pal #1 is 7-years-old and recently had a conversation with her mom about what “gay” was. That conversation ended like so:

7-Year-Old: Do I know anyone who is gay?

Mom: Yep. Molly.

7-Year-Old: Awesome.

Then, they went back to watching TV. Pal #2 is her 10-year-old sister. So…

Pal #1: Are you gonna be gay?

She continues to eat her chips. I think she’s interested in my answer, but I’m not sure. I think she’d rather just eat her chips.

Me: Umm…I AM gay. Yes.

Pal #1: But you aren’t married.

Me: OK. But if I was gonna get married, it would be to a girl.

No reason to discuss marriage equality right now.

Pal #2: Well, you don’t seem gay.

Me: Interesting…what would make me seem gay?

Pal #2: Well, I thought gay meant three things: if you were a boy, you like boys and if you were a girl, you liked girls; that you were always happy; and that if you were a boy, you dressed like a girl and if you were a girl, you dressed like a boy.

Me: OK. Well, yes to the first point. And sometimes, to the last two.

Pal #2: You don’t dress like a boy.

Me: No.

No need to discuss sexual identity at this point.

Pal #2: You’re pretty happy.

Me: Generally, yes.

Gay. Happy. Duh.

Pal #2: And you like girls…?

Me: Yep.

Pal #2: OK.

“OK”…as though that is that.

Me: Is that OK?

Pal #2: Yeah.

I look at her younger sister.

Me: How ‘bout you? All cool?

Pal #1: Yep.

“Yep”…as though that is that. Then…

Pal #1: Can I have more chips?

And that was that.


So maybe sometimes when you come out, it doesn’t change anything…it just makes you hungry for chips.

In a recent conversation with a straight friend (I only identify him as such to illustrate this point), he was adamant about the need for gay people to come out – “this is your civil rights movement. Own it. Demand equality.”

I am lucky. I don’t have the scary story of my family turning their backs on me. I have always just treated my “gayness” as just a piece of my life, but something about the way he said it resonated.

Somehow, it is my job to demand you treat me equally. There is something inherently unfair in that.


Today, as we celebrate the life and work of Martin Luther King, Jr., I am reminded of this quote: “In the End, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends.”

He spoke a lot about silence.

Indeed, in his Letter from a Birmingham Jail, he wrote, “We will have to repent in this generation not merely for the vitriolic words and actions of the bad people but for the appalling silence of the good people. We must come to see that human progress never rolls in on wheels of inevitability. It comes through the tireless efforts and persistent work of men…”

So, friends, on a day that celebrates the legacy of a man who dared to dream, and on the day when we see an African American sworn in for his second term, I ask for your voice. I will continue to come out – that is my contribution to the change. But I ask that you have your own Coming Out…as an advocate, as an ally, as a friend.

Sex Talk with Neighbors

Sex makes me uncomfortable. Wait…that’s not right.

Talking about sex makes me uncomfortable. There. That’s better.

“So, why write a blog post about it, Cox?” you’re probably thinking to yourself. And, yes, I’m aware that I’ve already written the word “sex” and my last name is Cox. It’s unfortunate, but it’s real.

OK…so the reason for this post…and this isn’t the “news” part of it, but it needs to be stated just in case you didn’t know: (PS peep my hair. There’s a clue.) I’m gay. And when people figure out that you’re gay, they immediately start thinking about sex. How do they do it? What’s gay sex look like? Can they even have sex?

Disclaimer: I know that not ALL people immediately begin thinking about sex when they find out you’re gay, but a lot do.

So, one of my neighbors is an…umm…older woman who has both insulted and complimented me on more than one occasion. For example, this exchange actually happened while my house was undergoing renovations:

Her: You have done so much to your house. I envy your energy. Now, tell me, is it just innate that your people know how to fix stuff up? You’re all just so handy.

Me: My…people?

Her: Aren’t you gay?

Me: Umm…yes. And gay girls are pulled aside in 5th grade and taken to shop classes, while gay boys go to theatre camp.

Her: Well, now, you’re just pulling my leg.

Me: Yes, ma’am.

This was followed up later in the day with me in a dress heading out to a party, and her completely flabbergasted that “my people” are handy AND wear dresses.


Which brings me to the conversation I had with her on Thursday morning.

My lady neighbor caught me as I was getting in my car, presumably to leave my house to go somewhere. It was at this time that she decided she’d like to talk to me about my “people.”

The conversation went as such:

Her: Can I ask you a question?

I immediately think, “Well you just did. You mean another question?” But I respond with, “Of course.”

Her: Have you always known you were gay?

Me: Well, good morning to you, too.

Her: I’m sorry. Good Morning. (slight pause) Have you always know you were gay?

Me: No.

Her: Do you think my daughter is gay?

To be clear, I’ve spoken to her adult daughter that lives with her exactly one time. I think I waved at her from across our two lawns, and she said, “Hi.” I shouted “Hi” back. The end.

Me: Umm…I don’t know.

Her: You can’t tell?

Me: No. She hasn’t filled out a membership application yet, and I am the Membership Chair, so I would definitely know.

Her: (completely deadpan) You’re making a joke.

Me: Yes.

Her: This isn’t a joking matter.

I study her for a moment.

Me: Oh. You’re serious. You think your daughter is gay?

Her: Yes.

She begins to cry. On my front lawn. With my car on. I get out of my front seat.

Me: Do you want to come inside for some coffee?

She is hesitant. She wants my advice, but she’s nervous to be alone with me in my house, I guess. In the open air, I’m not nearly as contagious.

Me: How ‘bout we have some coffee on my back patio?

Her: That would be delightful.

I love when people use that word to describe stuff.

She heads through my gate into my backyard. I kill the engine on my car and walk inside. I fix two mugs of coffee and meet her in the back. It’s slightly chilly.

I won’t bore you with the entire conversation, but basically her daughter’s lack of dates with men and insistence on hanging out with her girl friends have led her to believe that she is a lesbian.

Her: What am I going to do?

She asks this legitimately, as though I will commiserate.

Me: I don’t know what you mean.

Her: Isn’t it hard?

While she asks this in all seriousness, I can’t help but think, “That’s what she said.” Or, in this case, perhaps, “That’s not what she said.”

Me: Hard?

Her: Your life. Aren’t people mean to you?

Well, now we’re getting somewhere.

Me: Yes. Sometimes.

Her: And what about the love of a man?

Me: Umm…well, that’s the thing about lesbians…

Her: No. I know. But you can’t be taken care of in your house or in your bed.

Me: We’re not actually going to talk about sex are we?

Her: Well, I want grandchildren. I want my daughter to feel loved…taken care of.

Me: Right. Umm…

I’m horrifically uncomfortable. I’m sweating. And it’s cold.

Her: Can you even be satisfied?

Me: Umm…

I can’t answer these questions.

Her: Can you even have sex?

Me: Umm…

This isn’t happening.

Her: What do two women do in bed?

Me: Umm…

Make a joke. Make a fucking joke. Get out of this!

Me: Well, sex between lesbians always starts with brushing each other’s hair. Which is hard for me ‘cause my hair is short, and I use a lot of product.

There’s an uncomfortable silence. Then she starts to chuckle.

Her: You’re messing with me.

Me: I am.

We laughed together for a minute.

Her: What am I supposed to do?

Me: You’re not going to start having lesbian sex are you?

Her: NOOOO!!!

Me: Well, then I don’t know what you mean.

Her: What if she’s gay?

Me: What if she is?

That stumped her. She sat there, looking out over my backyard.

Her: Her life will be hard.

Me: Some parts…yes. Other parts? Not so much.

Her: Isn’t your life hard?

Me: Meh. I live in a great house. I drive a decent car. I own my own business. I have many people who love me.

Her: How can I let her know it’s ok to tell me?

Me: Tell her that. Let her know it’s ok to tell you.

Her: Then, what if she is?

Me: What if she is?

Her: I guess it doesn’t matter.

Me: That’s the best possible answer.

Her: But what if she’s not?

Me: What if she’s not?

Her: I guess it doesn’t matter.

There was more, but I was struck with how it ended.

Her: You don’t know me at all. And yet…here you are, talking to me.

Me: My people are good listeners. I mean, why do you think we’re so good with talk shows – Ellen? Rosie? Oprah?

Her: Oprah is gay?!?

Me: While debatable…no. I just needed a third. Comedy happens in threes.

We stand. She hugs me. Oh, also…I’m not a hugger.

Her: Thank you. I think I’m ready to talk to her.

She was teary.

Me: Absolutely not a problem. Remember, if she is gay…nothing for her has changed. She is no different than she was yesterday. You just know more about her.

She took my face in her hand. She would clearly catch “the gay” now.

Her: You are a good person.

She walked home.

I was late going home that night and kept my fingers crossed that she didn’t walk her twenty-year-old daughter over to my house with a hairbrush in tow. But I didn’t see her.

She did, however, catch me Friday evening as I was (again) leaving. She waits for that, I’m sure. “Oh…she looks like she’s going somewhere. This is the perfect time for a chat.”

She explained that she waited for her daughter to come home, then sat her down, told her she loved her, and asked her if she had anything to tell her. She said that her daughter got really quiet, and she readied herself for the news.

Apparently, her daughter has been seeing a guy for quite some time. It’s “real love…maybe her first.” She’s not ready to introduce him to her mom and knew that would bother her, so that’s why she hasn’t told her.

“She’s not gay!”

She seemed genuinely happy. She nearly shouted it. She hugged me.

Me: Umm…I’m happy for you…?

Her: I didn’t tell her I thought she might be gay.

Me: That’s probably for the best.

Her: It would have really been OK if she was. I mean that.

Me: That’s good to know.

Her: Mija, I want you to know that I think you would make a fantastic mother. We’ll have to find a man that’s worthy enough to give you his sperm.

And, really, there’s not much more to say about that.