My wife is away at La Leche League conference....
Let me start off by saying, I've never been to anything related to La Leche league.. For like the first six months of her going to these meetings I thought it was like a cooking meeting where they just sat around eating custards and crap. Whatever.
So, I will use the powers of "Projective Anthropology" to tell you what is happening this weekend, why I'm not there, etc.
Act 1: The Feeding of the Thrall.
First of all, they all stuff their gourds. There is a contest, and the one that is the fattest will be the one that gets to talk the most, and be declared High Priestess. There are other prizes, but the goal is to expand the tum as far as possible over the three day period. In gatherings of women-folks, by and far, ladies with the most girth are most revered*, have the strongest opinions, and are generally regarded as the wisest. They say things like "You can do it that way, if you don't want it to work!" or "I think so-and-so is the only belly dance instructor with proper technique!**" My poor wife will never win, for she is too thin, beautiful, kind and diplomatic to be taken seriously as the high priestess.. That's cool, she is more comfortable as an 'influencer' as opposed to an executive....Anyway, back to the high priestess...It is this woman who will likely possess "The Thrall". Now the Thrall is that skinny, quasi cute in an aging emo way (?), wimp husband*** who never says a word (except nice things here and there), he just nods along, and seems to have way too much interest in this stuff for the average man. For some reason no other husband would be able to fathom, this guy is doing the Milk-Maker Cult Weekend trip with his Alpha wife, the cult high priestess. Now everyone will enjoy things like the muffins presented below. But of course, the real purpose is to fatten up the Thrall....for later...
Act 2: We talk about our feelings and get empowered.
Well there's a lot of discussion. Like a lot-o-lot-o-lot. We talk the shit out of 'em yall. We touch on our feelings...Then we validate each everyone else's feelings, even if they aren't worth a crap, because a standard hallmark of group female communication is a pride in consensus and smoothness over accuracy and truth. Importantly, meaningful dialogue is hampered by this vestigial communication mode left over from more misogynistic and patriarchal times; ironically its tragic practice is maintained even in this bastion of female empowerment and without the confining pressures of stifling male rigiosity or competition for protective mates. Shit it's even worse yall.. There is one bitch**** who makes the mistake of saying another one is "wrong." Fighting words...This is what they do to her:
Act 3: Denouement
The Third Day is a glorious reckoning. The oneness of the Milk Maker cult reaches an apex as the Thrall has ripened, and the ritual is ready to begin. They put on their Rainbow Cloaks, gather, and sacrifice the Thrall!!!!!!!
This is how it goes down:
In the end the Thrall is eaten alive by the Great Mamory Mistress...And that's how the crops grow, the women folk are satiated for another year, and granted the powers to create and sustain life. It's a beautiful thing. And that's why we can never go back to Helen.
* Sandow, R. A. (2009) Studies of Tahitian Female Power Structures as a Model for British Parlimentary Procedure. International Journal of Anthropological Gender Transformation Issues, 77, 176-209.
**Doodler, K. (2006). Personal Communication with Local Priestess.
***Importantly, not to be confused with "Mancation Husband" who came along and then suddenly dropped yall like a cold potato to drink beer and go rafting with his braws...Check ya later suckers!
****Please note that this is the Technical term associated with the lowest caste of initiates within the cult of Milk Makers. Ergo, this is faux pax of egregious proportion.
PS. I love you wife, see you Saturday.