On sexism and the negative stereotype.

Before we get started, let me go ahead and tell you guys that this is not going to be nearly as serious a blog post as you think it is.

Right.

I love my cats.  I really do.  Alistair is quite possibly the cutest and most loving creature I've ever run across.  I could spend an entire Saturday scritching his belly while we're sprawled out on the bed, listening to him purr like a motorboat as he stares at me with unquestioning adoration.

And don't get me started on Zevran.  When I say he is the greatest cat in existence, it is no exaggeration.  He gets crazy eyes when he's about to play fetch with a wadded-up paper towel, he follows me room to room at my heels like a warlock's familiar.  He climbs on my shoulders so he can divebomb headbutt me.  Look at the little fucker.

That's me in the middle of making dinner.  I can wear him like a parrot.  If he'd bake muffins for me, I'd upgrade him to roommate.

That being said, I'm well aware I'm crazy.  I'm crazy about my cats.  I'm a crazy cat...

uh... hm.

Why is there no male analog to Crazy Cat Lady?  Why is it that when we envision a person living alone, humming in their house by themselves, cooking for one, wearing a frilly apron and singing to their cats, we see a woman?

That shit is sexist.  It ain't right.