The Art of Bitchdom

Today I'm up to a bit of thievery. I'm stealing a post from my friend Jumble Mash, but as it was a guest post I did for her, it may or may not actually count as larceny. I don't really care whether it does or not because my eyes hurt after staring at a computer screen for five straight hours.

Yup, this is all the effort you get from me today...just enough to copy and paste. I'm sure there are a few readers that we don't share and, therefore, have not read this particular post before today. If you did read it a few months ago at Jumble Mash, just put on your best shit-eatin' grin and pretend like you didn't.

Before my eyes completely disengage from my head, I will be popping over to catch up with as many of you as I can. Stay tuned for more guest posts coming both this week and next. Awesome stuff, folks. You won't want to miss it.

Well...here ya go.




Bitchin' ain't easy. You'd think it would be what with celebrities running around making it look like a piece of cake. Like Ellen Degeneres. Helping people and giving away prizes on fake game shows and dancing her skinny ass all over the place... What a bitch, right? It takes finely honed skill, nay, talent to perfect the art of bitchdom. I should know. I practice my craft every single day.


Just the other day, for example, I was in one of my "classes" (I parenthesize the word because I have no intention of telling you what kind of class it is. I can't have you all up in my business. I don't know you like that.) and the "teacher" was trying to recall a certain song that would go a long way toward helping her make her point. I thought I might know the song, as did several others, but none of us could think of the name. Except this one woman.


I want to interject that this woman is a psycho. Her very existence depends upon her getting married and having kids before she turns 40. She'll be thirty-nine in a couple of weeks. Needless to say, she drives me batshit crazy with her incessant whining about not having a man and not being married and not having kids. She asks everybody for advice and we all try to help her, but all she does is piss and moan some more. Maybe if she'd shut the fuck up for two seconds, she could get a man to do her. There are plenty of ways she could use her mouth to land herself a man and none of them involve whining. Just saying. Also, she doesn't listen and she always has to be right. Always.


Now for my part, I was going nuts trying to think of the name of this song. You know how you're trying to recall some tidbit of information, but it's playing hide and seek in the crumbling crevices of your rum-soaked brain? No? It's just me? Well, anyway, the teacher and I had already established that she and I were thinking of two completely different songs, but it was still driving me crazy trying to remember the name of my song, the one that was sitting on the tip of my tongue taunting me with its elusiveness.


Psycho Betty, not her real name, decided that the song we were both looking for was "The Climb" by Miley Cyrus. I said, "No, that's not the song I'm thinking of. The song I'm thinking of is sung by a dude."


She says, "No, it's not. It's The Climb by Miley Cyrus." Wow! I didn't know that bitch could read minds. Even so, her skills are grossly underdeveloped because I hear a man's voice singing in my head. I think I know the difference between Miley Cyrus' annoying feminine twang and the smooth baritone of a man. I guess when you're single for as long as she's been, the lines between bass and soprano get blurred.


By this time, I had completely given up on the teacher's song. I tried to relay this to Psycho Betty, but she didn't hear me. All she heard was her inner psycho telling her that she was correct. I went into the hall to call home and ask my ten-year-old if she could remember the song that was, at this point, about to cause either a psychotic break on my part or an early death on Psycho Betty's part. That's how much both the song and the bitch were getting on my nerves.


"'Live Like We're Dying' by Kris Allen," my brilliant daughter says.


Yes! I can relax now.


Not quite.


Psycho Betty insists, "Mrs. Hyde, the song you're looking for is The Climb by Miley Cyrus."


I lost it. "That's not the fucking song, you neurotic moron! If you say "The Climb" one more time, my foot is going to climb right up your ass." The whole class went silent, even Betty and the teacher. Oops. Let that be a lesson to all you Psycho Bettys out there: just shut the hell up and listen sometimes.


I didn't mean to go off on Betty. I actually like her and I did apologize to her later. I normally try to restrain my bitchdom in public. But sometimes...every now and then when the psychos threaten your sanity, you just gotta let that Bitch roam free.


I love you guys! Thanks for hanging in there with me!

Dear Mrs. Hyde, the ABCM Version

So...this woman emailed me at thewellfedspirit@gmail.com because she needed a fresh take on a situation at work. Apparently, she was gossiping about a co-worker, only to find out that her assumptions were untrue. She asked for my opinion as to what her next move should be, and as I specified previously, she chose from which of my personalities she wanted to get an answer. She chose both. I just want it to go on record that she chose to do this. Okay? I will not be held responsible for any trauma caused by my response. Let's all keep that in mind as we're wondering what the fuck she's on and how we can get a prescription that strong.

Here, I'll let her tell the story.

Okay, here's the deal. At my job, there was a rumor going around that one of the married women in my department (Mrs. K) was slipping down to the mail room and having noontime quickies with a guy down there. Now, I don't really like Mrs. K--she's the kind of person who is always talking about her new this or that. I can barely afford to put gas in the car. So, like everybody else I started whispering when she disappeared at lunch time.

Last week, I just happened to be in the mail room when she came down with her lunch. I hovered around to see which guy she would disappear with... Well, they didn't disappear. Her and the dude who wears eyeliner (Mr. E) were watching Ellen on a portable tv. 

So, now I feel like an ass, and I'm not sure what to do. Mrs. K notices that people are acting funny around her, but I don't think she knows why. I don't want to point out the obvious (Mr. E doesn't seem to be interested in women) because that's an HR violation. 

What should I do?


Um...yeah...how can I put this delicately? Oh, I know. Mind your fucking business. You said that you feel like an ass? Congratulations, you are. I mean, why in the name of Idris Elba's edible chocolate abs are you so concerned with what Mrs. K is doing on her lunch break? Get a life, boo. Because if you had a life, you'd be too busy to concern yourself with the potential sex lives of co-workers, married or otherwise.

I understand the mind of the hating ass bitch. (In case this is unclear, the hating ass bitch is you) You see a woman who has more material possessions than you. She drives a nice car, wears expensive clothes, owns a nice home, and has a gorgeous dick slinger to boot. She has worked hard for those things and is proud of her accomplishments, so she flaunts them. But that's not what you see. You, with your bad credit, hooptie, broken down slum apartment, and four baby's daddies see not the hard-working woman who has her shit together, but instead a stuck-up, bourgeoisie bitch who throws her wealth in the face of others. You know what? Maybe she is, but that's not the reason you hate her. You hate her because your shit is not together.

Your time can be much better spent if you focused more on achieving your goals and less on being a bitch about hers. You can spread rumors about her. You can put sugar in the gas tank of her BMW Z4 Roadster 2.5i (don't get caught because that's reasonable cause for a beat down). You could give her man the best blow job of his life in the parking lot while he waits for her to clock out from her high-paying job, but that won't change your situation. I get it. Misery loves company. What misery should start loving is effective fucking solutions.

What 's the difference between a happy bitch and a miserable bitch on one hand, and two miserable bitches on the other? Well, that's obvious, but the constant in both situations is that the original miserable bitch is still miserable. Think about it: do you really want her to be unhappy or is what you really want is for you to be happy, too?

Whether or not Mr. E is gay, because that's your implication, is none of your concern. There you go minding someone's business again. You should have no HR issues if you remember this: gay man or adulterous woman...there's no difference when you're slandering people.

To help your jealous ass save face, I submit the following. Go to your co-workers, you know, the ones with whom you've actively engaged in Mrs. K-bashing, and say, nonchalantly, "Girl(s), we were tripping. That bitch is down there watching Ellen with Mr. E, harming no one. I think I'll take this as a sign and mind my own dumb ass business from now on." Then eat your ramen noodles and shut the fuck up.

From now on, concentrate more on 'doing you' than 'fucking her' (over). Jealousy is not attractive. It's an ugly, poor, insecure, low self-esteem having punta.

You didn't know I spoke Spanish, did you?

Please.

I don't watch George Lopez for nothing.

If you want to read the zen bitch's my alter ego's response, go here. And puh-lease, if there's anything I left out, please include it in your comment.

Texting While Dumb

This is a post I did when I was a guest over at Can U Relate? in November. Some of you may have read it already, but that doesn't stop it from being a good read. Read it again. You  know you want to. It'll make you feel good. 


That's me being subliminal. The reason I'm semi-reposting is that I'm tired as hell. In the interest of not acquiring LADLE, I decided to shovel some snow this morning. My other interest was in not assaulting my kids. They've been home for five days now; that's the weekend, two days for Professional Dicking Off Development, and one snow day. I love my children (95% of the time), but too much of a good thing is not such a good thing. Look at me and Cuervo. See?


Thank you, Semi True Torystellar, if I haven't said it already, for letting me stomp your yard. That sounds vaguely sexual, doesn't it? Insert an inappropriate, yet funny joke here and we'll move on.


It's difficult to know what to write when called upon to guest blog for someone. Several things need to be taken into consideration. You have to consider what type of readers their blog has. Are they the sensitive, religious sort or are they heavy drinking party people? Or somewhere in between? What does one write as a guest blog post, anyway? I know what I write on A Bitch Called Mom, but is it appropriate for Can U Relate? Will Semi True Torystellar's readers like me or will they pelt me with stones for not being as wonderful and witty as she? Will they identify with what I have to say or will they shake their heads and wonder why I've wasted three minutes of their lives?

Fuck it. I gotta be me. If you don't like it, don't complain to me. This ain't my blog.

In keeping with the basic format of my own blog, I shall do what I do best: bitch. Not only will I bitch, but I will bitch about one of my favorite subjects. Drum roll, please...dumbasses.

Have you noticed lately that people appear to be getting dumber? With all this wonderful technology, with more people attending college, with slavery being abolished over 200 years ago, with women having had the right to vote since 1920, you would think that we would be rising. As a nation, as a society, as a whole. Instead we're falling. Then we get back up and fall again. Okay, so slavery and women's rights have little to do with this particular bitchfest, but roll with it.

Take texting for instance.



Calm the fuck down, I'm not about to bash texting. I, for one, don't like to have actual contact with people if at all possible. I love texting because that way people don't keep me occupied for hours with their annoying ass problems. If I could text sex in, my husband would get it way more often than he does now. Actually, if I took my cues from teenage girls, I guess I could text in sex. But I have a headache, so maybe tomorrow.

I get that it is easier and faster to type
idk y ur getn on my fukn nervs stop plz b4 i prk my fut up ur ass
rather than
I don't know why you're getting on my fucking nerves. Stop please, before I park my foot up your ass.

It's succinct, streamlined, expeditious. I appreciate quick answers because I have too much shit to do and not nearly enough time to do it. Gt 2 the fukn pt alredy.

This is what I've been seeing a lot on Facebook lately:

I Aint Gon ' Lieee , Yuh Lorr Butt Beh Loud As Ah Motha - Eff ' Err

And 

Gettinqq Hair Donee Todayy . Permm Is Callinnqq My Name Wooohhh Childdd , Lmboooo ! Noww I Gottaa Waitt For My Movah Too Cum Home ! Listen To Nicki Nd Customizinq Piksss ! Hmu !

Correct me if I'm wrong, but I thought the whole point of the texting/IMing thing was that you could type in less letters and still have people understand what you're trying to say. As you can see from my examples above, and hell no I did not make them up, we're apparently now supposed to use text misspellings with additional letters added at the end. WTBFF? (nobody was brave enough to ask what this meant in the original post, so I'll tell you now. What The Bloody Flying Fuck. Genius, I know.)

I don't understand why, if you have the inclination to type in additional letters, can't you just type in the correct spelling of the original word? Why does it seem like people are using texting as an excuse to be stupid?

If you're a poor, stupid shlub who can't spell, that's fine. We laugh at you behind your back, but we understand. Anyone who's ever had a brain fart and forgotten how to spell a simple word like "been" or "is" or something like that understands. If you're stuck in forever text mode and have a tendency to use text language in your emails to your boss, that's fine. You may not have a job for long, but we get it. But if you're an unpleasant combination of the two who also writessss innnn snakeeeee languageeee, I have a fucking problem. And if I have a problem, other people have to listen to me bitch about it.

Please do the world a favor and save it from my bitching. I think that's something we could all be thankful for.

To review, let's see what we've learned today:

1. stupid people chap my ass

2. I'm a bitch

3. I don't give a fuck doesn't like it

Amen.

P.S. Please like me. I need friends.

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.

Dollar Store Danger

First, I'd like to thank the blog gods, without whom none of this would be possible. Next, I want to thank my husband who has been so supportive of  my need to bitch to strangers. Thank you, honey! Oh, and I can't forget all the dumbasses who have given me endless blogging topics what with all their dumb ass antics. I love you all. Without you, there is no me.

I'm back now. Just having a little dream of blog fame. Seriously, though, I would like to thank all of my wonderful friends and readers who have given me awards and nominated me for The 2011 Bloggies. I am honored and deeply touched. I knew that I was going to nominate my favorite blogs, but it never even occurred to me that people would nominate me. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! This is my new Stylish Blogger award from Jumble Mash:

and here's my Life Is Good award from Semi True Torystellar:


I will get to passing the awards on and their conditions later. Right now I have a promise to fulfill...the Dollar General story.

Last week, I promised to tell you the harrowing story of why I refuse to go to the dollar store on Friday mornings. Here goes. May my pain be your entertainment.

Follow me, if you will, to a cold Friday morning in the winter of 2008. Our antique washing machine (or was it the dryer? I forget) was on the fritz, again, so I had to venture out into the cold to wash, dry, and fold a week's worth of laundry for six people at my local laundromat. The one good thing about using the laundromat is that you can get it all done in one swoop. So, instead of taking a whole day to do laundry, you could be finished in roughly two hours. That's good shit.

This laundromat was located in a shopping center, some of you may refer to it as a strip mall, so in addition to laundry, you could have lunch at the Chinese carry-out, replenish your liquor cabinet, stock up on synthetic hair, buy a year's worth of unhealthy groceries for under $100, or peruse the inexpensive, low-quality wares of the Dollar General store.

There I was in the second stretch of the laundry games, drying my delicates at an unnaturally high temperature,  when I decided to take a short walk down to Dollar General. I had 56 minutes to kill. My fridge was already overflowing with cheap, unhealthy food. Of course, you already know that both my liquor cabinet and weave were tight, and greasy Chinese gives me the trots. Yes, Dollar General it was.

I was in there browsing, trying not to brush up against anything lest my clothing be covered in three month old dust. I briefly considered calling my husband to chit chat, but then I remembered he was asleep having just gotten in from work about three hours prior. No sooner had I put my phone back inside my coat pocket that I heard a commotion from the front of the store. There was a distinctly masculine voice yelling at someone. I couldn't understand what he was saying because, although I could tell it was male, the voice was muffled.

That's odd, I thought as I walked toward the front of the store like the stupid woman in the horror movie running from the killer in six inch stilettos. You know the one. You're screaming at the screen, "Bitch, take off the damn heels! He's right behind you!" But for all your helpful screaming, she leaves them on and trips over a log the size of a German Shepard and somehow, can't figure out how to get back up. I'm her now, walking my dumb ass toward the danger instead of away from it.

I get to the front and realize that the yelling is coming from the manager's office, the one cleverly concealed by a two-way mirror. Whomever thought of that one is a fucking genius. I would have never guessed that there was an office back there. You mean this isn't a regular mirror placed here for customer convenience in the baby care section? But I need to see myself as I shop for diapers and nursing pads. Whatever.

There's lots of movement and yelling going on in there now. It sounds like the manager is being attacked, but I still can't make out what the attacker is saying. I look toward the door and there is a guy in a ski mask kneeling and tying his shoe. Yes, folks, he was tying his shoe. That's how you ensure that you won't fall when your ass is being chased.

Think fast, Mrs. Hyde...the door is blocked by a possibly dangerous assailant...what do you do? Return to the rear of the store, of course. Get as far away from these thugs as possible and maybe they won't notice you. I walk back down the aisle and my heart is pounding in my chest. A man and a woman who apparently had the same idea, join me in the back. I remember that I have my cell phone right there in my right pocket. I can dial 911 while the criminals are occupied at the front! Then a little voice in my head said, "That's not a good idea. What if they hear you?" Right. I'll wait until they leave and then call.

A split second later, a split-fucking-second, the shoe-tying bandit rounded the corner, seemingly from nowhere, pointing a huge silver gun at us. "Everybody face down on the floor," he said, gesturing with the menacing weapon. We got our asses down on that floor but quick. He lingered a second too long, and in that moment, I thought sure he would shoot me in the back of my head.


No! I thought. I am not going to die like this on the dirty floor of the Dollar General. I am going to get up from here soon and I am going to get my clothes out of that god awful laundromat and I am going to pick my kids up from school. I am going to see my kids and husband again. I am going to talk to my sister again. I'm going to leave this place alive.

By the time my inner pep talk was over, they were gone. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief that we were all still alive. The police were called and one man, who probably had warrants pending, made himself scarce real fast.

And now for the part that pissed me off.

While we waited for the police to arrive, my bossiness kicked into overdrive. I had worked at a bank for several years, so I knew what to do in case of a robbery. The manager was pretty shaken, she couldn't do much to help. I told everyone not to leave until the police arrived. I told them not to talk to each other about the description of the robbers, so their answers wouldn't influence the memory of the others. And would somebody puh-lease get this female off-duty police officer who's having a nervous breakdown a drink of water and a chair?

Listen, I understand that the woman was traumatized. I understand that she'd thought her life was in danger. Her life probably flashed before her eyes and all that. But....BUT doesn't this bitch get paid for this shit? More than that, isn't this bitch trained specifically to handle dangerous situations? I didn't expect her to whip out her nine millimeter and get to capping, but I damn sure didn't expect her to bawl like a fucking toddler. Anyone who carries a semi-automatic weapon around on a regular basis should not be a blubbering fool under pressure. All the take-charge shit I was doing, she was supposed to be doing. Why wasn't that bitch getting my ass a drink of water? If ever there was a bitch in the wrong fucking profession, it was she, and don't think I didn't tell her that shit, either.

To ease your minds, I want you to know that I wasn't mean to her. I made somebody bring her weeping ass a chair, didn't I? What I said to her was more like, "Honey, maybe you should think about a new career. The dangerous job you have now is, obviously, not for you." Her face flushed and wet, snot making a slimy path toward her mouth, she nodded and said, "You might be right."

Um...Ya think?

I Resolve...To Not Resolve

Another year has come to an end and I am happy to report that I haven't disappointed myself once in 2010. I know. I adore me, too. How have I managed this impossible feat? It's simple, really. I stopped making New Year's Resolutions about three years ago. Gone are the days when I'd sit down with a brand new journal and pen and plot out all the huge, unrealistic goals that I planned to meet in the new year. Ahhh, sweet freedom.

Have you ever taken a moment to examine the word 'resolution'? Broken down it's re-solution. The word is basically saying, "What? You didn't stick with this year's solution to the problem? Don't sweat it. Let's do it all over again!" It sounds wonderful, like a pardon from the President for killing a family of four, only the pardon is from yourself for not starting your own business or giving up caffeine. Yes, it sounds wonderful, but what happens when you catch a glimpse of yourself naked on December 19th and it's too late to lose that 50 pounds you resolved to lose? Trust me, even gastric bypass doesn't work that fast. So, you've disappointed yourself...again.

Not me. Not ever again. These past three years have been amazingly carefree. Except for the economy, but one can hardly blame me for that. Don't set yourselves up for failure. With my plan, you can make minimal effort and if you make any progress at all, it will be a victory. A small victory to be sure, but winning is winning.

And so, to encourage my friends, family, and fellow bloggers to join me in my quest to be happy in this new year and every new year to come I'm starting the No Resolution Revolution. It's just like making a resolution, only not. You take all the things you would normally resolve to do and do the opposite. Are you following me? No? Come on, keep up. It's not rocket science. Just do as I do.

In 2011, I promise (not resolve, see how that works?) to:
1. Eat as much as I possibly can in a 365 day span. Therefore, I also will
2. Gain so much weight that Weight Watchers will call me and offer their services free of charge.
3. Do absolutely no exercise and negatively impact my lung capacity.
4. Speaking of lung capacity, I will take up smoking again. Sure, I only smoked two cigs a day, but a carcinogen is a carcinogen, right? I'm sure it'll do the job.
5. Not put forth any effort toward being successful or achieving my dreams. Who needs a career that's financially and emotionally fulfilling? Not me, that's for damn sure.
6. Not pay any attention whatsoever to my husband and kids. They'll survive. If not, there's always the cat.
7. Let my house fall apart completely. I'm tired of spending my hard-earned money on this old ass house. Well, it's not exactly my hard-earned money, but still. I could start a nice gambling addiction with that money.
8. To be the most ungrateful bitch anyone has ever met. I've already got the bitch part down, so we're halfway there with that one.
9. To be the rootinest tootinest bible-thumpingest Christian this side of the Mississip. I almost wrote that whole sentence without laughing.
10. To actively, proactively, and reactively seek out alcoholism. That one shall begin before this post is finished being typed.

By the end of 2011, I will be a fat, lazy, alcoholic with no ambition, no friends, fucked up kids, and an iron lung. Damn! This shit is going to be fun.

I read a bumper sticker recently that said, "Where are we going and why am I in this handbasket?" let's just say that's my motto for 2011. We're not supposed to survive 2012, so why the hell would I go through all the trouble of doing all the things that everyone else is promising themselves to do. Fuck that. I'm going to have a ball during my supposed last year of existence and maybe do shit differently in my next lifetime.

Maybe.

Happy Fat Ass New Year to all my wonderful and loyal readers! I fucking love you guys! I'm never going to say that shit again, so you might want to print this out.

See ya next year!

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.

Award Whore

It's been five days since my last post and in that time, I've won two blog awards. You mean I don't even have to do a damn thing to win an award? Nice. I didn't actually win them per se. My awesome blog friends have given them to me because they think I'm hot shit. I guess that's tantamount to entering a beauty contest where your mom is one of the judges. That's fine by me. It's about time I had an unfair advantage over something.

The first award was from the source of my second guest post on a blog. Semi True Torystellar from Can U Relate granted me the Tanned Hide Blog Award

Because some crap should not be put up with. I love it! And if you get to spank an ass in the process, all the better. Somebody was checking out my blog when they created this award. This blog is the birthplace of inspiration for many. You're welcome.

The second one is from a newcomer to A Bitch Called Mom, Kara over at Visions Unto Myself.

This is, by far, my favorite because it involves cupcakes that I didn't have to bake myself. Now that's somebody who thought to herself, 'what does this bitch really need in her life?' The answer is both simple and straightforward, although my husband still can't manage to figure it out. Say it with me, moms....LESS WORK. Or better...PERSONAL CHEF. Or best of all...GORGEOUS MAN BEARING CAKE.

Thank you, thank you, thank you ladies for believing that I am award-worthy. Just in case you're wondering what the hell you were thinking giving an award to a bitch like me, let me ease your minds by saying you had no choice. You might want to pay better attention to the subliminal messages strategically placed on my page from now on. I won't say you're gullible or anything like that, but...

Speaking of cake...

Is it just me or does food taste like crap when you're PMSing? Every damn thing I put in my mouth (minds out of the gutter please) tastes like metal right now. It's gotten so bad that I've taken to eating on paper plates with plastic utensils and consuming all beverages from plastic bottles or cups. Is this some freaky pregnancy spin-off?

When I was pregnant with my daughter, I couldn't eat sugar. To answer your question before you get a chance to think about asking it, no. Neither my doctor nor my nurse midwife instructed me to stay away from sugar to preserve the health of my baby. They didn't say I was damn near diabetic or anything drastic like that. I couldn't eat sugar because every time I tried to eat something sweet, my mouth would be flooded with the taste of metal. Needless to say, it was disgusting. I mean I couldn't eat anything even remotely sweet. Not cake, not pie, not cookies, not corn flakes sprinkled with sugar. Nothing. The thought of having sugar anywhere near me made me nauseous.

As a result of my sugar drought, I only gained 10 pounds during my whole pregnancy and five of those pounds belonged to the baby. And I was a sweet person. I don't think I yelled at my husband or oldest son (the oldest daughter wasn't adopted yet and the youngest son was still a baby) for the entire 37 weeks. I also didn't curse out: cashiers, trash guys (more on them in an upcoming post), my father-in-law (whom I curse out at least twice a week), or Verizon tech support, not that they would understand me anyway. If you think that statement is racist, it's because you don't know our history. I actually had a conversation with one guy that went like this:

Guy Who Lives In India: Verizon Tech Support, how may I help you?
Me: Hello. I can't connect to the internet.
GWLII: I'm so sorry to hear that, Ma'am. I can help you take care of this problem. Garble, garble, crunch, crunch?
Me: I'm sorry. I didn't understand you. Can you say that again?
GWLII: I'm sorry, ma'am. I didn't understand you. Will you repeat that?
Me: I didn't understand what you said.
GWLII: Please repeat that, ma'am.
Me: If I can't understand you and you can't understand me, how are you going to help me with my computer?
GWLII: I'm sorry, ma'am. Can you repeat that?

Dial tone......

I'm not going to start bitching about outsourcing, but if you must outsource, can you hire the people who speak the language of those they're meant to help? I'm just saying. If Indian companies were outsourcing to America, do you think they'd hire my non-Hindi speaking ass? I understand that some people read another language better than they speak it. I can read Spanish way better than I can speak Spanish, but still I'm not getting a job taking donations for Telemundo.

I digress. Oh, I was saying what an absolute pleasure I was to be around during my last pregnancy due to a lack of sugar.

Hold the phone! I think I just figured out this whole bitch thing.

No, wait. I lost it.



Oh, yeah, I guess I'm supposed to take off my hooker heels and put on my pimp hat, so here goes. I entrust the Tanned Hide Award to the following blogs:

Crazy Ramblings of a Tired Mom
stupid stuff i see and hear
The Journey

Neither of them put up with much bullshit.

And the warm and fuzzy cupcake award goes to:

Secret Pleasures (these are cupcakes of a whole 'nother kind)...

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.

Must Love Insanity

Occasionally, I feel the need to share something deeply personal about myself with strangers. I don't care who it is: old men on the bus, pharmacists, homeless people, babies. I will run my mouth like Martha Stewart's bitch ass assistant in 2005. Usually, my lips get loose after I've had a few, but I swear I'm stone cold sober right now. No, really. Stop fucking laughing. And while I have made some good cyber friends from this blog, I haven't actually met any of you, so... Although, if anyone has the urge to invite a random bitch for a weekend visit, say the word and I will leave in the middle of the night with neither warning nor note. Hell, they can survive on ramen for two days.

I was trying to make myself write something, any fucking thing yesterday when I came across a poem that I wrote a few years ago. Plus, I feel the need to redeem myself after totally ripping off Shakespeare a few days ago.You can click the "next blog" button at the top of the page if you hate poetry. I hate dumbasses, so I completely get it. Hey, hatred is hatred.

For those of you who don't mind reading the shit that goes on in my head (and you don't, that's why you're here), this one's for you. Well, not really, but read it anyway. Keep in mind whose poetry you're reading. There will be no flowery prose here.

Pretense

My name is Pretense
Some say I'm a bitch
I don't scare easy
Cry hard,
Blink or flinch.
Shit, you can't faze a witch.
It doesn't matter if you got yours
'Cause I make sure I get served.
Oh, you didn't leave your heart at the door?
Then you got what you deserved.
I don't care if you weep
Don't give a fuck about tears
Don't want to hear about your dreams
Could care less about your fears.
I'm Pretense, baby
We've been here before
I warned you, I warned you
To leave your heart at the door.
Don't leave yourself open
Don't let yourself be played
It's not always easy
Living this masquerade
Yet...
Some evils are necessary for survival
Some evils are necessary for survival
Some evils are necessary for survival
If I repeat it enough times
That'll make it true
Repeating a necessary evil makes you
Numb to that shit, too.
Repetition leads to memory
Memory leads to defense
Defense leads to pretense
Ain't that a bitch?


As you can see, even my poems are bitches. That's how I roll.

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.

Fuck Meat Eaters

I just read a post by my all-time favorite blogger. Now just because he's my favorite doesn't mean I agree with everything he says. I'm not his fucking clone after all.

His post was about vegetarians. But not just about us, totally and completely trashing us. And his stalkers, um, followers just made the discussion even worse. There were racist comments, ignorant comments, dumb-as-fuck comments. It made me sick.

Don't get me wrong, I know that there are A LOT of vegetarians and/or vegans who take that shit too far. I, however, am not one of them and I get sick and tired of defending my goddamn personal decision. Bitch, I didn't say your ass had to be a vegetarian; I said I'm a fucking vegetarian. If you want to eat a big ass pile of fucking meat, I don't give a shit. Knock yourself out. But don't fucking judge me because I choose not to.

Stop being so fucking stupid. "Vegetarian" is not synonymous with "punching bag." Please stop saying stupid shit to me. No, dumb ass, plants do not have feelings, too. Yes, dumb ass, vegetarians do, in fact, give head and probably a helluva lot better than you because we know how to give pleasure as well as receive it.

This is the last time, the last fucking time, I will defend my personal decision to be a vegetarian. From this moment on, all you hypocritical assholes will get a kick in the nuts or a serious punch in the tits when you demand I defend my position. See, I really don't care whether animals are harmed or not.

BTW, fuck you.

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.