The Struggle is Real

Hi, guys!

I know nobody probably cares anymore, but I just felt like posting today. I don't know why. Probably because what I wanted to say was more than 140 characters long. Since it's my blog that I set up originally so I could bitch when I'm PMSing, I think I'll do just that. Bitch. It's what I do best.

So...

There was one slice of cake leftover from my boss' baby shower at work yesterday. It was just sitting there on the break room counter, minding its own business. It wasn't bothering a soul. Honey, I walked past that thing five times, casting subtle glances upon its deliciousness as I went about my morning, just praying that someone else would eat it.

Then around 11:30 am, my stomach started doing that thing where it's insisting on being fed. You know that thing where your stomach is basically making you its bitch? Yeah, that. I said to myself, "Mrs. Hyde, maybe the Universe will intervene and the cake will be gone." It would be better for all concerned if it played out that way. No tummy ache. No guilt. No buttercream icing clinging to my chin at the staff meeting.

The Universe did not intervene. The Universe was all, "I'ma need you to eat the healthy snack you planned and not run up those stairs, grab the cake and scarf it down as fast as you can so no one will see you because everyone knows you're trying to eat better and exercise and what will people think if you devour a piece of luscious, delicious, decadent red velvet cake?" Ok, so at some point the Universe stopped talking and it was all me, bad grammar, run-on sentence and all.

Then I remembered that I don't give a fuck what people think, so I ate the cake. It was so good! But I will not feel guilty about it. What I will do is eat better for the rest of the day and resume my health(ier) eating and trying to get in some exercise, for the love of all that is good.

But, yeah. The struggle is real.

Sister Wife Wanted

Like I have a tendency to do when I'm getting my lazy, fat girl on, I sat down with a big piece of birthday pie to catch up on my favorite TV shows and others that pique my interest. Here is where I gloss over the fact that not one of you came over here on Sunday to wish me a happy birthday. It's okay. It's not like I feel unloved or anything. I'll have to tell you about how I went to Atlantic City to celebrate all by myself in another post.

Okay, so maybe I should have mentioned that my birthday was coming up. Whatever. Thirty-eight, thirty-nine, it really doesn't matter because when people ask about my age, I will continue to say "thirty" like it's the truest thing since the Big Bad Wolf.

Speaking of wolves, why is there a wolf in so many fairy tales? What the hell do we have against wolves? What do wolves really represent in fairy tales? I'll have to look into that.

Sorry ADD moment over...maybe.



Anyway, I was watching an episode of Sister Wives that I had recorded. I used to record the whole series, but there's enough bitching about husbands and kids in my life as it is, so now I just record on an as-needed basis. As in I need to know how this one dude convinced four separate women, fucking four, to marry him and have his babies...concurrently. Women can't share bathrooms, opinions on parenting, or recipes, let alone husbands. You know you left out an ingredient when you gave your best friend your grandmother's apple pie recipe. Here she is wondering why hers doesn't even come close to tasting like yours and you're giggling inside your head. Don't even get me started on the discovery that some other woman owns the same outfit as you, like the designer only made one. But this man actually made it sound like a good idea to four different women that they all be married to him and share his love, affection, home, and penis at the same time. That's a charming mother fucker right there, folks.

As I watched yesterday's episode (don't know what day it originally aired as I hardly ever watch live TV) I started thinking about what the advantages would be of having a sister wife. Let's bullet point them, shall we?

• It would be nice to have someone around who can be calm when I'm being a bitch. I can't count how many times I've said to hubby, "When I'm in bitch mode, you need to pick up my slack like I do for you. We can't both be bitches at the same time. They may be poster kids for birth control, but we do love them. Don't we? Really, I need you to tell me how we feel about them." I need someone who gets that. Someone who will relay the message to my clueless kids that I'm in a crappy grumpy mood and should be given some space at that time.  
• Do you know how much money I would pay when I'm not in the mood for sex to simply say, "It's Mabel's turn. Go ask her."? Then Mabel would do the wifely duties thing and I wouldn't have to deal with the morning-after-no-sex grouchiness. Big. I'd pay big.
• And speaking of sex, it would be cool to have someone with whom to commiserate and share notes on hubby's, um, style. Don't get me wrong, he has a knack for getting me there (TMI, I know), but after 17 years of marriage (which I also recently celebrated), things have a tendency to get predictable. Tweak nipples...vulva rub...now a little oral...stroke, stroke, stroke, BIG FINISH...damn, I don't feel like getting up to go pee. Not necessarily in that order or time frame. Mabel and I could brainstorm ways to spice up chandelier-swinging and I wouldn't be left to scour the internet for hours on end all by my lonesome. (If you don't hear from me in awhile, it's because this bullet point has caused my demise.)
• If there were a second or third or fourth woman around here, I could drop the guilt about how I only occasionally contribute to the family's finances. I'd put those bitches to work and I could continue to run the household and write and blog and get fat without a trace of guilt. Why the hell should I worry about getting fat? He has three other wives to gawk at. Let their asses be anorexic. Pardon me while I get another slice of Lemon Supreme Pie. No, really. I'm about to stop typing to take the clothes out of the dryer and since I'll be downstairs anyway, cut myself a fucking enormous modest slice of pie. Be right back.

Okay, where was I?

I'm just saying that they might be on to something. They are under investigation right now and the husband could possibly go to jail for being a bigamist. I don't understand that at all. He's only legally married to the first wife, but lives with and raises families with all the others. Since when is that a crime? If living with a whole shitload of people is a crime, I know a whole lot of families in the 'hood that now have one more thing to worry about.

So what's the problem? They're just saying that he has four wives. Forget about the love and values they share, he doesn't really, legally have four wives. It's not a crime to say shit, freedom of speech and all that. I could say that I'm the Queen of England, but if I roll my black ass up in Buckingham Palace with that bullshit, I'm coming back out feet first. Does that make it wrong that I said it? Maybe in the UK, but I'm not really sure and I don't give enough of a shit to look it up right now.

The government is just mad because they can't tax him four times. Or perhaps that their chronic state of stick-up-my-assness prevents them from being charismatic enough to have four women, who get along with each other, agree to bear their seed and fuck them proper like.

Suggestion, assholes: stop trying to deny people the label of 'family.' There are all different kinds of families. My best friend is more like a sister to me and I sometimes introduce her as such. Will I be arrested for that? Growing up, and I still see kids do this today, I used to pretend that my friends were my cousins. How come you didn't lock me up and throw away the key? Surely, I was a menace to society showing all that love to people who didn't even share my blood.

This is a free fucking country! Why are we letting these bastards decide whom and how we can love?

I'll tell you one thing, though. I'd hate to be around when all four of those bitches hit PMS at the same time.

Aunt Flo and the Assholes Who Love Her

Happy New Year to everyone to whom I haven't already said it. There. I don't have to say it anymore until next year. If I haven't said it to you yet, and you're neither smart nor intuitive enough to read this blog post, well then, you're shit out of luck.

Apparently, there have been a lot of people whose new year's resolution was to follow more blogs because I have doubled my readership in the past week. I'm not saying that I'm the best, but... I'm the best. A great big, bitchy welcome to all my new readers. I will try to return the favor, but I'm a busy bitch, so if I forget you sometimes, suck it up. I once forgot my two-year-old at a state park and I love him, so... Calm down, I remembered him by the time I was half way to the car.

Now to the reason for this particular bitch fest: feminine hygiene products.

Can we talk like girlfriends? Good, 'cause I'm going to do it anyway. Bruce, Rabbit, and Dad, I hereby dub thee honorary girlfriends. The same goes for any man who reads this blog, but I have yet to get to know. If that doesn't work for you, just pretend you're watching the game and a commercial for tampons came on at halftime.

Let's dish.

Because I'm still of childbearing age, barely, but still there, I have occasion to purchase feminine hygiene products. I try to avoid it simply because it's a pain in the ass. Usually, I buy the biggest box I can find so that it takes me months to have to do it again. Well, today, I needed to do it again. Yesterday, actually, but I push my luck with everything else, so why should this be different?

I made a list of all the things I would need and I was all set for a quick trip to Wally World or Target (read tar-zhay). Then I remembered that I haven't been to the store all week, so I will need to add a few things to my list. The list goes from three to fifteen items long. Then I remember that it's Friday, pizza night, and I don't have any pizza or items to make pizza. That means I have to go to another store. Well, if I have to go to two stores, I may as well clip those coupons that have been sitting on my desk since Sunday. Since I'm clipping coupons, I may as well look through the sale papers so I can get some sale/coupon combos. I mean, that only makes sense, right?

And this, gentlemen, is why it takes women so long to get ready to leave the house. Now you know. No need to thank me.

I had planned to leave the house at around 8:30 a.m., but with all the new items on my to-do list, it was looking more like 9:30 or 10:00. Oh shit, I haven't showered or eaten yet. Make that 10:30. Well, Mother Nature, Aunt Flo, or The-Thing-That-Created-Mrs.-Hyde, does not like to wait. She's an impatient bitch and she was telling me, not at all subtly, that she would not wait until 10:00. So, I drag myself to my neighborhood Family Dollar to get the biggest box of, um, supplies they sell.

Now, I don't like going to any dollar store on a Friday morning, for reasons I will tell you in my next post, but there I was with the male cashier, and five male customers. Not a woman in sight. I tried to locate the obvious sale they were having on hand lotion and tube socks, but no luck. I took my items to the cash register, the guy rung them up, and just stood there waiting for my money. I dug in my change purse to find the coin portion of my total. Then I went to the bills section of the wallet and fished out a $20 bill. The whole time I'm doing this, instead of bagging my items so that the other men will not see my very personal purchases, this ass clown just leaves my things scattered across the counter until:
1. I get money from two sections of my wallet,
2. give it to him,
3. he punches in the amount,
4. retrieves my change,
5. closes the drawer,
6. rips off the receipt,
7. hands me my change,
and only then does he bag my items. By that time every man in the store was in line behind me.

I have long since gotten over being embarrassed when men see me buying feminine hygiene products. It's life, and men know that women have periods, so nothing to be ashamed of. But even though I'm not ashamed, I wanted to bash his fucking face in with a can of FDS. Would it have killed him to bag my shit before all the men in the city saw what I was buying? Asshole.

Who came up with that cutesy little name, Aunt Flo, anyway? I take issue with it. She is nothing like my aunts. That bitch is just plain rude. My aunts would never just show up, out of the blue, and expect everyone to cater to her needs. My aunts don't leave messes and expect others to clean up after them. My aunts don't expect me to change my plans just for them. If it's not a good time for a visit, my aunts will plan to come when the timing is better for everyone. And if my aunts are upset with me, they won't kick my ass just for GP. Fuck that bitch. She ain't no aunt of mine.

****BTW, the zen bitch is making me pimp her from now on. Something about helping people in 2011 or some shit like that. If you have any questions or issues about which you would like a fresh perspective, email thewellfedspirit@gmail.com and your question and her subsequent response will be featured on The Well-Fed Spirit blog. When you email, let me know if you want your answer from the zen bitch (TWFS) or me (ABCM). If you pick me, you question will appear here. Thanks!

Ten Things I Hate About You

I read a post yesterday (Hey, Barb!) where the blogger listed ten things she loves. I considered doing that. I've been extra specially bitchy lately and I could stand to impart a little gratitude. PMS is kicking my ass this month, y'all. I apologize to my male readers, but only a little. It's life. Deal.

After I read Barb's post, I tried to compile a list of things that I love. She had about three things on her list that I could have stolen, but I figured since I already hijacked her idea, I'd save any additional thievery for another day. I would like to post my list here for your enjoyment but...it doesn't exist. I gave up after about two minutes and decided to ride this extreme PMS to the end. Below you will find the list of:

Ten Things I Fucking Hate Only I Shortened It To Five Things Because My Attention Span Isn't That Long:

1. Stupid people. If you're new to this blog, you may not know of my strong dislike of the common sense-impaired. Read this and this and this to catch up. Don't worry, we'll wait. Well, I won't, but maybe my loyal readers will. Serves your ass right for getting here so late. While you're doing that, the rest of us will amuse ourselves with this hilarious video of Katt Williams.

Twenty on eleven, bitch! If I could get my hair as straight and bouncy as his, I'd have one less thing to bitch about. That would only leave 7428. Every little bit helps. One day at a time.

2. I hate when I'm trying to do something I shouldn't be doing, and a kid walks in and catches me. I quit smoking officially about five years ago. Unofficially, I still smoke the occasional cigarette or Black and Mild (the wine flavor is awesome). Mostly, I do it when some kid has catapulted me into crisis mode or when I'm out drinking with the hubs. He smokes cigars and I can't stand the smoke unless I'm smoking, too. Go figure. So the other day, I found out my sixteen year old hooked school and was "discovered" at his girlfriend's grandmother's house sleeping on the sofa in the middle of the day. Nobody was at home but those two and when they were found, the girl was on top of the boy...sleeping. Yeah, that's what I said. After comparing notes, the other mother and I concluded that they had, indeed, had sex.

I'm so not ready for this bullshit.

I ripped him a new asshole and then hightailed it to the liquor store where I purchased one Black and Mild. For those that don't know, a Black and Mild is like a small, cheap cigar that comes in various flavors for your ghetto ass enjoyment. As I was sitting in my parked car on the driveway smoking my cheap cigar and minding my own fucking business, guess who comes barreling out the front door having the nerve to look at me like he's disappointed? My late son. May his soul rest in peace 'cause there's not much left of his body.

3. I hate when I fold a load of freshly washed and dried towels and place them neatly inside the linen closet only to come back ten minutes later and discover that my once neat pile has been overturned because some kid or grown ass man needed to get his/her favorite towel from the bottom of the fucking pile. You don't understand. That shit is like nails on a chalkboard to me. No, worse. It's like leaving a teaspoon of butter pecan ice cream in an otherwise empty container. Somebody should die.

4. I hate when I want to be left alone and people don't take the hint. "Are you okay, Mrs. Hyde? Is something wrong? It sure seems like something is wrong. Are you sure nothing is wrong 'cause I'd hate to find out that something was wrong and I left it alone because you told me nothing was wrong." Let me make this clear: EVEN IF SOMETHING IS WRONG, IF I SAY THERE'S NOT, ASSUME THAT EVERYTHING IS PEACHY FUCKING KEEN.

5. I hate when people can't read my mind. If I know what's going on in my chaotic head, why the hell don't you? If you cared, you'd know what I was thinking. Okay, I'll give you one clue. When I bare my teeth like this, it means I'm considering sprinkling cat nip in your crotch and letting my cat go to town. Pop quiz: what am I thinking now? Damn shame...I thought you loved me.

This looks like a job for Jose Cuervo.

Meltdown in 3...2...1

Every time I'm in a perfectly good mood, I come home and these people screw it up. Is a clean house too much to ask for? If I can see the pizza box on the floor, why can't you? I don't get. Am I missing something? Did everybody in this household go blind when I wasn't looking?

And if my cell phone doesn't stop freakin' ringing with some idiot on the other line who can't possibly wipe his ass without my help, I'm going to scream! Stop calling me! Stop calling me! STOP FUCKING CALLING ME!

Uh oh. There's that sharp pain in my head again.

What are those dark spots doing floating in the air like that?

Is It The First Day of School Yet?

Who's dumb ass idea was it for me to have four kids? Couldn't have been mine. Must have been the DH (dumb, not dear) who thought of it. And furthermore, why the hell are they out of school for two and a half months in the summertime? If one of these mfers don't get a job, I think I might kill someone. Eating up my food, dirtying all the goddamn dishes, using all the tp and soap... What the hell are they good for?

I'm not being harsh. My youngest child is nine. If that's not get-a-fucking-job age I don't know what is. They all know better and it is pissing me off that they don't act like it. What ever happened to ass-whuppings? You know, back when you could beat a child's ass and break his spirit and not have to worry about the state coming to lock you up? I got my ass whupped up one side and down the other and I am mad as hell that I can't treat my own kids like Hebrew slaves, too.

Ah, the good old days. How I miss them.

But...maybe if I had been treated better, I wouldn't have the urge to treat my children badly. Just a thought.

Who even cares? Do you? Probably not enough to make any changes, though.

Right?

Me either.

I love (my) children?

Don't you just hate children? Aw, come on. I'm not the only one. You bust your ass providing for them, you cook, clean, do hair, bake (!), discipline, give advice, schlep, shop, and (fill in your own thankless chore here) and what do they do for you? Say thanks? Be obedient? Keep your house clean? Um...no. Those little suckers latch on like a calf at the teat and hold on for dear life, totally and completely dependent on you. Somebody should repeal the child labor laws so I can put these freeloaders to work and finally get something out of this abyss called parenthood.

Whew! Glad I got that off my chest.

Hidden in the darkest crevices of my being is a thin, happy woman who marvels at the wonderment of childhood; its innocence, its naiveness (just found out that was a word), its unconditional love, blah, blah, blah. On the surface, though, is a fat, bitter bitch who wishes people were born at age 30, knowledgeable and not annoying in the least.

Then again I know a lot of annoying 30-year-olds...

WTH?

I had two posts on this blog that that zen bitch deleted. She sucks so frickin' hard! BTW the zen bitch is me...when I'm not PMSing.

I started this blog because I suffer from PMDD. I know, bfd because so do half the women in the U.S. I've tried medication, meditation, and running away from home. The only thing that even remotely helps is alcohol. So shut the hell up and pass the Cuervo because I don't give a fat rat's ass what you think of me right now. It calms me down for about...30 minutes which is just enough time for my husband to grab the kids and run.

I hope they don't come back. They always do. And they never, ever take the damn cat with them.

I'm a completely different person when I'm PMSing. I don't give a shit. About anything. I've composed a list of all the things about which I don't give a shit during this wonderful time of the month:

1. my children
2. your children
3. men
4. animals (I'm a vegetarian)
5. religion
6. oil spills
7. skinny bitches
8. rich bitches
9. skinny, rich bitches
10. you (but keep reading anyway. I'll be back to loving you in about a week).
11. Oprah (need I say more)

My husband and I are going away for our 18th anniversary this week. Pray for him please. Tell God I don't give a shit.

And pass the Cuervo.