Dateland: Sleeping with Mrs. Bachmann
I have a terrible confession. Every woman I have ever slept with has been a Republican. Even if they wouldn’t admit it. I always manage to suss it out. They stare wistfully at protesters at abortion clinics or I find pictures of Ronald Reagan tucked in their wallets. Sadly, I was born and raised in the suburbs and have a sentimental attachment to helmet-haired, BMW-driving, bridge-playing matrons who vote only for white men with easy-to-pronounce surnames.
But that’s not my terrible confession. Here it is: I am sleeping with Michelle Bachman. Yes, that’s right. Michelle Bachmann sleeps with me each night. And I love her.
OK, it’s not the real Michelle Bachmann, but it is one of her disciples. Her name is Livia and she’s a miniature schnauzer. She share’s Bachmann’s fuzzy features and long eyelashes, as well as her homophobia.
I got Livia and her idiot brother Fredo from the same litter three years ago, and Livia has been trying to turn me straight ever since. Anytime a girl comes anywhere near me, Livia weasels her way between us, blocking any intimacy. She literally creates a dog wall to prevent any contact. In bed, she sleeps between my girlfriend and me, lying flush against my side and extending her legs against my girlfriend to prevent any accidental touching during the night.
When we attempt to share a kiss, Livia throws herself at us until we’re forced to stop. We have to lock her out of the bedroom when we have sexy time. And she responds by hurling herself at the door repeatedly until we stop our lesbian antics.
“How did you manage to raise a right-wing conservative dog?” my girlfriend asked, not nearly as concerned about this issue as she should be. Although she votes for all the right people, she’s a business owner who gets all misty each time the phrase “tax relief for the wealthy” is evoked by Fox commentators. So, she’s not nearly as alarmed as I am that I have a Republican pet.
Recently, I took Livia to a trainer to help break her of her obstructionist ways.
“What’s the problem,” the gruff lady trainer with hair the color of algae.
“She won’t let me have sex,” I responded.
“And, what’s the matter with that?” she said. “I haven’t had sex since my hysterectomy. I don’t miss it. Sounds to me like she’s just being sensible. Get out of bed! Go take a walk!”
“I’m just worried that she’s homophobic,” I said. “Anytime my girlfriend comes within touching distance, Livia, squirms between us. She’s very sweet about it, but she’s also insistent. We are not allowed to get anywhere near each other when she’s around.”
The trainer, who obviously hadn’t had or wanted human contact since infancy, rolled her eyes at my base desires. Then she took me through Livia’s daily routine in order to determine the root of the problem.
I told her that the dogs are left alone when I go to work and that I leave the TV on for them so they don’t get lonely. “Come to think of it,” I said, having a mighty revelation, “the channel is usually on Fox News when I get home. Could Livia be changing the channel once I leave the house?”
The trainer and I agreed that this was the problem. She gave me a piercing whistle to use whenever Michelle Bachman comes on the screen. “Aversion therapy,” the trainer said.
Will it work? Too soon to tell. But this morning, Livia chewed up my conservative dress pumps, forcing me to wear Birkenstocks to work. Perhaps her way of finally giving approval to my lesbian lifestyle?