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!

Bottoms Up!

Today is my six month bloggerversary! That's right, six months ago today I thought to myself, "What trick can I employ to get myself to write on a semi-regular basis? I could put it at the top of my to-do list. Nah, that hasn't worked so far. I could beg the writing gods to have mercy on my undisciplined soul. Maybe if I had a clue as to who the writing gods might be. I could start a blog. Everyone else and his great nana is doing it. Why the hell not?" So I created The Well-Fed Spirit because I wanted to reach out to women and give a voice to those who might feel they don't have one. Two weeks later, I started my regular, tortuous bout of PMDD and A Bitch Called Mom was born.

In the spirit of celebration, I have decided to piss off as many people as possible today. Those of you who usually find me lovable or at least entertaining might want to tighten your big girl/boy drawers. It's about to get bumpy in this bitch.

I was on my way inside my favorite grocery store, Aldi, yesterday when I noticed a protest going on just a few yards away. About 15 people with signs that read, "Church and liquor don't mix" and "God doesn't approve" were shouting at anyone within earshot about the travesty that was unfolding before our eyes. A liquor store was opening right next door to their church and they were not happy about it. And worse, God wasn't happy about it.

Let me briefly interject that I find it hilariously ironic that someone decided to build a liquor store right beside a church, but that's just me.

Anyway, a young man approached me as I struggled to shut the trunk of my van while maintaining a death grip on my reusable bags so they wouldn't fly away in the 40 mph winds. He politely asked if I would sign their petition to prevent the liquor store from opening next to their awesome, wonderful, sent-straight-from- heaven church. I told him I didn't really care whether there was a liquor store next to his church because hey, it ain't my fricking church, but that I would sign the petition if that would make him happy enough to skip his little ass out of my face.

"I don't understand, Ma'am." He was so well-mannered. His mama would have been proud.

I explained to him that it's all a matter of perspective. What if, instead of seeing this situation as a curse, they looked at it as a blessing. If there is a liquor store next door to your church, doesn't that give you countless opportunities to "save" the "sinners" who might have a "drinking problem"?

He said, "Ma'am, I can see how you would think that, but there are many members of our church, including myself, who are recovering from alcoholism and it's not a good idea to have a liquor store there while we're trying to worship."

At this point, I'm about two seconds away from cursing him out because he's called me "ma'am" twice already. Asshole. He starts to rattle off a list of the long line of alcoholics in his ancestry and I told him to save the drama for his mama. My father was both an alcoholic and a drug addict, my mother still is a drug addict, I have at least six other family members with addictions of some kind and my husband is just a shot away from being an alcoholic himself. I, myself have at least three shots to go before I get there, so I'm good. The point is I'm familiar with addiction, so you don't need to sell me on it, Little Preacher Boy.

Here's my question: at what point do we make addicts responsible for their own sobriety? For that matter, when do we make people, in general, responsible for their own lives? I understand that it is a daily struggle for addicts to maintain their sobriety. I applaud anyone who battles with this disease and manages to come out on top most of the time. Temptation is everywhere. How will a recovering addict learn to deal with temptation in a healthy, productive way if we shield them from it? How can they know the victory of overcoming an obstacle, if we hide the obstacles from them?

If you're an alcoholic and you work at a dentist's office in a shopping center that just so happens to be three doors down from a bar, are you going to quit your job? Petition that they uproot their entire business so that you won't have to walk past it everyday? Or will you walk right past it and, when you feel tempted, keep on going until you find an AA meeting? Isn't that what's supposed to happen? When you find yourself in a situation that you feel you can't handle without the assistance of alcohol, you need to seek the assistance of those who are there to support you because they all have been where you are and will not judge you. Right? If that's not how it works, you definitely won't find my ass parked at an AA meeting when I finally fall off the edge of this cliff. Fuck that.

If you walk down the street in any poor neighborhood in America, you will find a church on the corner. If you keep walking in the same direction, you will find a liquor store one block down. Keep walking and you'll find that the pattern repeats itself: church, liquor store, church, liquor store. This is where poor people find solace. If it can't be found in church, we'll just walk down a block and find it at the bottom of a bottle.

I wonder if the protesters would have been as up-in-arms if the store were opening a block away. Is proximity the issue? Is God okay with liquor stores being erected a whole city block away from the church, just not right next door? And wouldn't the recovering alcoholics still have to walk past the liquor to get to the Lord? Or vice versa?

What's your take?

To those who will un-follow me now, I say, "Hey, it's been real." I'll see you at the next meeting. To those of you who will stick around, I say, "Thanks for having my back whether you agree with me or not." And feel free to cuss my ass out if you think I'm being offensive. You know I'd extend the same courtesy to you. That's how love works: I piss you off, you put your foot up my ass, we have a good laugh or cry, and then start that shit all over again.

Happy bloggerversary to me and to The Empress of The Ranter's Box fame, who celebrated hers just a few days ago (November 31st!). You know what they say about great minds. She's my sister from another mister, so if you haven't had the pleasure of reading her blog, get your ass over there now!

I just thought of something...she started her blog roughly a week before I started mine. She has almost 200 followers and I have 25. Hmmm. Guess that means I don't know what the fuck I'm doing out here in this crazy blog world.

Oh, well...bottoms up!

A Funny Thing Happened on My Way To the Porcelain Throne

Veggies chopped? Check. Cheese shredded? Check. Bundt and cupcakes baked? Potatoes peeled? Turkey thawed? Check, check, and check? Why are you thawing your turkey so early, Mrs. Hyde? Three words: it's not mine. Not only do I have to prepare a Thanksgiving feast for my own household, including cakes and pies and make not one, but two banana puddings for my mother-in-law, but I also have to roast a turkey, bake stuffing (well, technically it's dressing since I'm not putting it inside the turkey), and make a Strawberry Shortcake for my sister. My baby sister claims she can't cook, so every year I make extra stuffing, cakes and sometimes pies for her household as well. I'm pretty sure it's a rouse because her kids don't starve the rest of the year. Mysteriously around Thanksgiving, though, she can't seem to remember what that big white thing in the kitchen is for. I love her anyway. Who cares if my eyes are bloodshot and I have the worst migraine I've had in months?

Speaking of turkey, it's time to fulfill the conditions of the Shiny Turkey Award I received from Jumble Mash. To review, I need to tell a story of food, cooking/baking, intoxication, and/or the holidays. If I had a story that encompassed all those subjects, that would be freakin' awesome. But I don't. I have an assload of falling down drunk stories (about myself and others) and I will tell you one of those right now.

About three years ago (or maybe more. Who knows? I've killed many brain cells in that time), my husband took me out to celebrate my birthday. He'd asked a few of our (read: his) friends to join us in the celebration. Keep in mind that I had just recently gotten my 'drinking legs' as I like to say. The night was set for excitement and fun. First, we went out to one of those hibachi style restaurants where they grill the food in front of you. Having known that we were going out to eat, I hadn't eaten much that day. Wish I had remembered that before I ordered a Zombie. And then another.

Some other woman at a different table was also celebrating her birthday, so when they started singing that lame ass song to her, I chimed in. Really. Loudly. And before you ask, no, I didn't know the words. I clapped, I waved somebody's cigarette lighter in the air. The brain cells that remembered her name are dead now, so let's just call her Becky. At first Becky was laughing along and cheering me on. Apparently, she'd had a zombie without having first eaten, too. Then you could tell she was a little annoyed because I wouldn't shut the hell up. I knew she was annoyed. I didn't give a fuck. Once hubby managed to settle me down, I told him he just had a stick up his ass because his best friend (also celebrating with us) had fucked more women at our table than he had. That went over well, needless to say. I didn't give a fuck.

Then we went to the Policeman's Lounge, where cops can go and morph into alcoholics for next to nothing. I consumed even more drinks and got into an argument with a cop. Hey! Not my fault; he was a prick. He was hitting on my friend, who has the equivalent of two black girl asses, and she wasn't interested. Being the awesome friend that I was, I told him to back the fuck off my woman before I kicked his ass. At first he found it amusing, but of course I took it too far. I proceeded to tell him that my girlfriend didn't want him because he had a little dick. But not only did he have a small pecker, but that it was so small that my dick was bigger than his. He didn't particularly like that, so he argued with me until my big black husband rolled up behind him after which he promptly shut the fuck up. And I called him a punk bitch as he walked away. We had to leave the policeman's lounge.

You think this story is over, don't you? Wrong. After we got kicked out of the lounge left the lounge willingly, dutiful hubby wanted to make sure everyone got home safely. I was looking a little green around the gills by then, so he dropped me off at home and followed our friends home. He carried me up the stairs and I told him I needed to use the bathroom and I was perfectly capable of going by myself. He made sure I made it to the toilet and asked me if I was okay.

"I'm fine," I assured him. "Make sure our friends get home." He left me in the bathroom. About 30 minutes later, I awaken to a knock on the bathroom door.

"Are you okay?"

"I said I'm fine. Go take them home so you can hurry back."

"Sweetie, I've already gone and come back. Are you still on the toilet?"

Yes, I was asleep on the toilet. I say he came back 30 minutes later, but for all I know, it was three hours. He could have sexed one bitch six ways from Sunday or six bitches one way from Sunday and I would have been none the wiser. I opened my mouth to answer him and out came everything I'd ever eaten in my life. Good thing the bathtub is right next to the toilet. I was sick for three days after that.

That's my story of intoxication and holidays, if you count my birthday as one.

Note: While all of this did happen, it did not occur on the same night. I have condensed three stories for your enjoyment. You're welcome.