Wasted Bitch Writing

So.....I want to apologize in advance because this is a drunk ass post by a pissed off wife and mother of four fucking children. Four. Did y'all know I had four fucking kids? How the fuck did that happen? I didn't even want any damned kids. If you get nothing from this intoxicated post, please tell your daughters not to let charming mother fuckers talk them into shit they never wanted to do.

Anyway, I'm getting white boy wasted (sorry, it's hard to distinguish what's racist and what's not when you're drunk. I get it now, Charlie Sheen) all by my fucking self because my "husband" decided that it would be more fun for him to get wasted with his friends/brothers/all the cops in any major city EVER than to commiserate with his wife at home over the fact that BOTH of our teenagers are failing classes. Fuck'em. Fuck him. Fuck all their asses.

Okay, I'll admit I'm a borderline alki, but before 8:30 PM (bedtime for my youngest two), I'm fucking Supermom. I don't even think about Jose (Cuervo) before then because that's just how fucking awesome a mom I am. I delay my sorrow drowning personal gratification to make sure my kids are taken care of. If that's not supermom, I don't know what is.

I started this blog because I was PMSing and didn't feel like fucking being nice and shit like I do on my other blog. That was the goddamn point. So, tonight is a bad night. It's a PMS night. It's a PMDD night. Which is why I needed the alcohol. Truth be told, it started last night, but that's neither here nor there.

I can't really remember what the point is, exactly. That's the price you pay after your fifth lemon drop, but I DO fucking remember that my husband is an asshole. That's right. I said it! You're an asshole, sweetheart.

He is the kind of person that likes to have the whole world thinking that everything is peachy when, in fact, it's quite shitty. That's why I'm posting this. Why the fuck should I be the only pissed off bitch in this relationship tonight? Rut roh, Shaggy! The world now knows that you're not perfect. How will you ever survive?

You know? I couldn't possibly give less of a fuck than I do right now. Maybe you'll still love my psycho ass tomorrow, maybe you won't. Right now, guess what?

I don't give a fuck.

What's that I spy? An empty shot glass? That's not right.

See ya when I see ya!

Dear Whiny Little Girl

Yesterday I received my first hate mail. Hot damn! I have arrived! You're not anybody in this blorld (blog world) if no one hates you.

I did a post about an episode of My Strange Addiction on TLC where the woman was addicted to makeup. I found it hilarious and, indeed strange. Her daughter did not. I didn't give a shit. I still don't, but because she's just a young bitch girl, I feel the need to address her concerns. Blame it on my maternal instincts.

Here is the comment from IAMASADBITCH with some red-pen corrections from yours truly:



"okay mrs hyde!
apparently you need a job and/ or a new hobby because its (it's) obvious you have neither when you can sit here all day long on the computer & waste your time, write an entire article about my beautiful mother when you don't even no (the word you're looking for is 'know') her! its (it's) apparent your (you're) unhappy with yourself for you to sit there and write all these negative things about other people...my advice grow up, get a life & grow some class (I don't think class can be grown, but you wouldn't know that, having none yourself) you look & sound like a complete dirtbag with your trashy mouth! did you ever think for 2 seconds my mother got paid to do this show?! (Of course she did. I never said she was an idiot, I said she was crazy) & if you ask me, you could definatly (definitely) use just as much make up as shes (she's) wearing (Um, no thanks. Deep lines and wrinkles don't appeal to me)!! misery loves company thats probly (that's probably) why you sit on the computer (I don't actually sit on the computer. That would make it difficult to type) all day long for people to agree with your ridiculous nonscence (nonsense), your (you're) sad & i feel sorry for you!

p.s...whatever you have to say about me or my mother will never phase either one of us considering where (we're) happy with ourselves & who we are.. so have fun sitting your ass online all day long making fun out of other people...&& GOD BLESS u sad bitch (Isn't it blasphemous to say 'God' and 'bitch' in the same sentence? So Christian-like...I really believe she's sending blessings my way)! :) <3"

First, I'd like to point out that when a little, red squiggly line appears under a word you've typed, it means the word is misspelled. 
Because you're a child, I won't give you the standard ass whupping usually reserved for full-fledged adults. That would be like arguing with a toddler which, for all intents and purposes, you are.

Do you know what's really sad, IAMASADBITCH? That you actually believed that your mother could go on television, on a nationally broadcast reality show looking like the poltergeist clown and not have people laugh at her. You're not angry with me, honey. You're angry because you couldn't talk your mom out of doing something so ridiculously moronic, it has people begging for more episodes of Jersey Shore. With all the drug addiction and alcoholism and sex and food addictions out there, your mother is addicted to makeup? How the fuck is that not hilarious? Your mother, I'm sure, was well aware of the reactions people would have as we watched her recount all the effort she goes to just to make sure her makeup has staying power and is super intense at all times. It was a blog post waiting to happen, really. It was a stand-up comedian's dream. I wonder if Jay Leno received hate mail from you as well? No? You've gotta respect Maureen's hustle, though. If I, like she, had no job and spent all my money buying makeup in lieu of paying bills and someone offered me money to have my bullshit aired, I'd have to at least consider it. But also, I'd have enough sense to realize that many, many people would call me on said bullshit.

Calling me a bitch is redundant. I know I'm a bitch and so does everyone who reads my blog. It's in the blog title, in case you had too much makeup in your eyes to read it. This is my blog. I can say what the hell I want about whomever I choose. If you didn't like it, creating a bogus account and attempting to insult my readers and me was the wrong way to go. I guess they didn't teach you at Backwoods High that we live in a free country. Freedom of speech, freedom of religion, freedom to blog about dumbasses at will.

I can appreciate your need to defend your mother. Even though mine was not the best, I was fiercely protective of her, so I get it. It's also very easy to be a badass in cyberspace. But, sweetie, anyone who puts their business on television for the whole world to see is fair game. Just ask celebrities. Everyone with the ability to type, speak, and/or aim a camera makes it a point to be all in their personal lives because once you let the public into your life, it's no longer personal. Your mother wanted her fifteen minutes of fame. She got it. If that has caused you pain, I suggest you take it up with her.

Clearly, you were so busy being offended and embarrassed that you missed my point. My point was that the term "addiction" is grossly overused. I've been guilty of it myself from time to time. People claim to be addicted to Farmville, to reality TV, to carbs, to sniffing cat shit. I don't really care, but it's not addiction. Nobody is addicted to makeup. Please. I can't even wrap my brain around how stupid an idea that is.

I'm not going to address your insults because they're juvenile and they prove just how young and naive and insecure you are. You can save your mean girl act for someone else because tantrums don't bother me. Why don't you go kick a puppy or something? Don't worry, you won't always be this way. You will grow up (hopefully) and you will be able to discern the productive from the counterproductive. I will address the statement you made about how happy you and your mother are with yourselves. You stated that you would not be phased by anything I said. Ah...you're showing your hand, little girl. I'd say you're quite phased, otherwise we wouldn't be having this conversation. I don't know anything about you aside from your being a coward, but it is obvious that your mother is not happy with herself. If she were, she would not believe that the only way she can be beautiful is to hide herself behind all that makeup. I hope she didn't pass that lesson on to you. As mothers, we try our best not to pass our insecurities on to our children, but our best efforts are not always enough.

I feel sorry for the both of you and don't think that your barely coherent rant didn't give me something to think about. When you see  people on TV, it's easy to forget that they are real people with real problems. They are set apart from you because you don't know them personally. And if they're doing something that you deem ridiculous, well, then they get what they deserve, right? I never thought of her as a real person until your anonymous comment on my blog. If someone had caused my daughter as much pain as my post has obviously caused you, I would be very upset and probably just as irrational. I did not intend to hurt your feelings, didn't even know you existed, but this is not a hole that was dug by me. You're angry with the wrong woman.

Do yourself a favor and stop trolling the internet looking to see who is bashing your mother. Instead, find her a good shrink. That is, if she actually does believe that she's addicted to makeup, which is probably not the case. It's not going to get any better. I doubt there is someone out there going, "I'm addicted to green eyeliner, too! Let's form a support group!" There is a chance, though, and if I find them, I will definitely send them your way. You can rest assured that neither you nor your mom will get anymore attention from me. Stop trying to stretch your fifteen minutes into a half an hour at my expense.

And please inform your mother that black eyeliner is equally dramatic and far less scary.


Every time I set out to rip someone a new one, I start to do that whole mom thing that pisses me off. Oh, well, I'll bring the bitch back tomorrow. Do you guys have any advice for our young visitor? She may never read it, but somehow, I think she'll be back. Remember when you were nineteen and you cared about what other people were saying about you?

BTW, so sorry about the clowns, my friends. I promise to give you plenty of warning next time.

Half-Assed Baltimore

I hope you don't mind, Simple Dude, but I'm gonna go ahead and get the half-assed ball rolling this weekend. We were only 37 minutes into the weekend when shit started pissing me off, so...

In case you didn't feel like wasting two precious minutes of your life watching this video (and who could blame you?) this is Baltimore's mayor, Stephanie Rawlings-Blake fulfilling the losing end of a bet she made with Pittsburgh's mayor, Luke Ravenstahl over the Ravens/Steelers playoff game. I'm all for fun and games and friendly wagers between rivaling cities, but maybe, just maybe she should have done this before taking money out of the police officers' and firefighter's pockets while giving herself and the city council a raise. Why the hell do they get a raise? Aren't raises designed for employees who aren't fucking up?

Is this bitch for real? How much did this video cost to produce? Let's see, this is Baltimore City, so I'm going to make a conservative guess and say...carry the one... about a million dollars. All this city knows how to do is waste money. When I first enrolled my kids in school transportation at the beginning of the year, they were sending two separate school cabs to pick them up. Let me inform you that both of my children were leaving from the same house and going to the same school. A monstrous waste of money and resources. So I guess this video and other bullshit like it is what happened to the police officer's money that was just cut from their salaries. This is on top of the furlough days that were deducted from their paychecks earlier in the fiscal year. And it's retroactive.

Let me get this straight, Steph. Police officers are expected to fight crime in an increasingly crime-ridden city for less pay than the below-average wages they were already getting? And I'm supposed to feel safe in a city of (rightly) disgruntled police officers? Apparently so.

Good job, Mayor Rawlings-Blake. Good fucking job.

A half-assed post about a jackass. I think I've outdone myself.

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!

Dear Ass Clown

Let me start by saying that I have made a sincere effort to let this go. I wanted to chalk it up as one person's opinion, but I can't. Yesterday, I read a post that chapped my ass so badly that all the cocoa butter in the world won't help. The woman dedicated an entire blog post to a letter she wrote to "sorry ass mothers". In said letter, she unleashed a tsunami of scathing remarks toward mothers who: 1. don't strap their children in seat belts, 2. smoke inside the car with their children on board, and 3. scream at their children.

It's never okay to put the safety of children at risk, you may say. I agree. Secondhand smoke is very bad for a child's lungs, or anyone's lungs for that matter, you may respond. Again, I agree. Why would this upset you, Mrs. Hyde?

I'm so fucking glad you asked!

There are several reasons why that post bothered me. I'll give each its own bullet point and subsequent explanation.

*Don't presume to tell a mother how to be a mother.
I get that it pissed her off to see a small child not strapped in his/her car seat. And I understand her concern for the child inhaling the toxic fumes. But did anybody notice that this self-righteous woman didn't bother to voice her opinions to the mothers themselves? No? You know why? Because she would have gotten her ass handed to her in a used McDonald's bag. Everyday you see people doing stupid shit. There are dumbasses everywhere, but that doesn't give you the right to tell them that they are dumbasses, at least not without accepting the fallout that will surely come. That's why we don't do it. We might give them a dirty look, shake our heads in disgust, but if you're not going to call them on their bullshit, shut your fat ass pie hole. Maybe the child was strapped in, but as small children tend to be curious and mischievous, maybe the child unstrapped himself. With the cigarette-smoking mom, as far as I'm concerned if you've never had a nicotine addiction, you have no opinion. I'm going to let you in on a little secret: moms are human. Which brings me to my next point.

*Why in the name of sweet June Cleaver is the whole world so hard on mothers?
A mother can't step the tiniest bit outside the line without having the wrath of God brought down on her. It's like we're not human, and therefore not allowed to make mistakes. Don't yell at your kids, don't let them watch TV, don't feed them sugary cereals? WHAT? If you think I won't plop a bowl of cereal in front of a kid when I'm too tired to cook or tell them to go watch Spongebob so I can take a goddamn bath, you are sadly mistaken, asshole. While I do know that opinions are, in fact, like assholes, it leaves me wondering why all the bitter disdain for 'bad' mothers, but none for 'bad' fathers? Is it okay for deadbeats to abandon their children and not pay child support? Is it all honky fucking doory for a man to neglect his fatherly duties. If this woman had seen the child unstrapped in the car with his father, she would have shaken her head and said, "Hmmph, men!" and left it the hell alone. She wouldn't have thought twice about his smoking while driving his babies around because at least his ass is present, right? If a man screams at his kids, they call it tough love. And that shit brings me to my final point.

*Yelling at your kids is absolutely necessary.
Okay, not all the time, but sometimes, yes. It's very necessary. There are all different kinds of scenarios I could cite as excellent times for yelling, but I'd be here all fucking day and my kitchen floor isn't going to mop itself. I'll just say this: yelling at your children is the litmus test to make sure you are paying attention. If you're yelling at them, that means you caught their little sneaky asses doing something they had no business doing. You know why my kids aren't making pipe bombs in the basement? Because if it gets quiet for more than five minutes in this house, I know somebody is doing some shit they shouldn't. So, after five minutes free of bickering and mom I need money for xyz, my mommy senses start tingling and I go on a bullshit hunt. No, mom, I'm mixing these chemicals for my science project. Bullshit! No, mom, this isn't a hit list. These are all the people I'm inviting to my birthday party. Bullshit! No, mom, I'm not forwarding naked pictures of my former best friend to the entire sophomore class. Bullshit! I'm not saying my kids don't ever get one over on me, but if they do, it's not for long. I have a special brand of bitchy, guilt-inducing, disappointed, I-will-kick-your-assness that my kids try to avoid, if at all possible.

And no self-righteous, judgmental, childless, mean-girl-turned-fuckwad is going to take that away from me.

How Do I Hate Thee? Let Me Count The Tequila Shots

Wow. I haven't bitched in three weeks. That's a huge record for me. It's not that I haven't had anything about which to bitch, I just didn't feel like bitching to you. Bitches are fickle that way. Well, hold on to your margaritas 'cause a major bitch storm is a-brewing.

I have a friend, although maybe not anymore after this, who is so ecstatically freakin' happy because she's getting married. She's texting me 35 times a day with wedding updates. She expects me to not only pay for my $200 dress that I'll never wear again, but also my daughter's $200 dress that she'll never wear again. She wants me to pay God knows how many thousands of dollars for the pleasure of attending her destination wedding. And all of this crap would be fine with me (okay, I'd still bitch about it) if her "fiance" wasn't a complete jerk. I apologize for offending all the regular, run-of-the-mill jerks out there. This asshole is a fucking super jerk.

How do I hate this mother fucker? Let me count the ways:

1. he refuses to stop smoking weed around their three children. Preventing his kids from getting contact highs isn't on his list of priorities.

2. he allows his family and his friends to disrespect the mother of his children cum fiancee. And they treat his children like they're not part of the family.

3. a few years ago, he had an "accident" at work where he hit his head and lost his memory (yeah, right). when he woke up, there were two women at his bedside whom he didn't remember: my friend and some other bitch who also claimed to be his girlfriend. She was a fat, ugly bitch, too, but I digress.

4. after his "head trauma" his fat girlfriend moved him back to the city where his family lives. A city, mind you, that's in a whole different state than where my friend and her children live. Nobody bothered to even tell my friend and her kids where he was. She was worried sick and her kids were wondering what the hell happened to their dad. She only found out after his family got sick of her calling and finally answered the phone.

5. she moved to this new state to be with him while he recovered. she had no friends, no family, and as previously stated, his family disrespected her every chance they got. Meanwhile, he maintained that he never had a relationship with Fat Bitch, she was just a co-worker who had the hots for him.

6. when he got his memory back (very slowly and painfully), he applied for Social Security Disability and was approved. Since he didn't really have a need to work now, four children be damned (yes, there's a 4th child from a previous marriage), he decided to get a job at a car wash. He has no plans to find other, more stable employment.

7. oh, did i mention that while he was still in the hospital for his head injury, although he didn't remember who my friend was, he did remember who I was. So he has these two strangers (both his girlfriends) sitting on either side of his hospital bed and he says to me, "Oh, I remember you! We came to your surprise birthday party, right?" Right.
8. while at his mother's house one day, my friend discovered a family picture that they all had taken at his aunt's birthday party. My friend and her children hadn't been invited to this party, btw. In the picture were him, his mother, his sister, his step-father, his sister's children...and, you guessed it, Fat Bitch.
9. he disappears for days at a time and she can't get in touch with him. She'll call me and say, "I haven't heard from him in three days." I wonder where he could be? Riding a fat bitch, maybe?
10. Fat Bitch comes to their state regularly to visit his family...but not him. She's just so frickin' close with his sister, you know.
11. this is by far the worst one, so I'm going to give it the emphasis it deserves by typing it in all caps: HE ASKED FAT BITCH IF ANYTHING HAPPENED TO MY FRIEND, WOULD SHE HELP HIM RAISE HIS KIDS. FAT BITCH SAID NO. SHORTLY AFTERWARD (LIKE HOURS) HE AND MY FRIEND WERE ENGAGED. There are so many things wrong with this one that if I start listing them, we'd be here all frickin' day

I know you're thinking I should warn her or talk to her or hit her over the head with a fucking bong and a nickel bag, but I refuse. For the past decade, I have been pointing out red flags to her. GOD has been pointing out red flags to her. I have been angry, confrontational, and hostile on her behalf. I have consoled her and reassured her and I've done the best job I could of loving her. But the madness has to end some fucking where. I'm sick of being a bitch for her. It's her turn now. Her turn to defend her own damn-near-middle-aged self.

There is nothing, not one goddamn thing that I could tell her that she doesn't already know. I have said all the fuck I could possibly say. Everyone has their bullshit limit and I guess she hasn't reached hers yet. So I will paint a smile on my face, pay $400 for single-use dresses, and resist the urge to cause him further head trauma while I watch her make what could be the biggest mistake of her life.

It's sad, though, because she's convinced herself that she is actually happy. You should hear her go on and on about her newfound happiness. It breaks my heart. Why do people think that getting married will effect positive change in a relationship that is hanging on by a thread? I've been married for 16 years. I was a bitch when my husband met me 18 years ago and, surprise!, I'm still a bitch. My husband was a hothead when I met him, and he's still a hothead. Even when people do change, it's usually not that fucking drastic.

If he smokes pot in front of your (his!) children before you get married, he'll do it afterward. If you have to beg him to buy something his child needs before you get married, you'll be begging afterward. If you have to work full-time to pay your bills, take care of your kids, AND pay for an elaborate wedding beforehand, you'll be all alone on a Saturday night wondering where your husband is and why you haven't heard from him in three days. Here's a hint: he won't be washing cars.

If you're reading this, dear friend, I know you're angry at me right now. You probably think I have betrayed you. But have I betrayed you or have you betrayed yourself? Have you traded in your right to a happy life for a chance to just not be alone.  Or are you simply blinded by the wedding bells? I hope this doesn't end our friendship, but if it makes you see this whole situation for what it really is, it will have been worth it. I'd rather you not be my friend and stand up for yourself, than to live the rest of your life in unhappiness.

I'm not saying your man should be perfect. The perfect man doesn't exist. I'm just saying that, at the very least, he should respect you. He should care about your feelings. He should put you first.

I'm asking everyone who reads this to have a shot of tequila in remembrance of the 25 year friendship that may come to an end today. I'll be accepting applications for new friends. Bitches with inconsiderate assholes for boyfriends/husbands/girlfriends/wives need not apply.