Bitter Wives Club

Do you ever do things that you know are a terrible idea but you somehow convince yourself that this time it won’t be so bad?

You know, like leggings?

No, I’m not gonna look fat in them… not this time (never mind the camel toe and the fact that ever dimple of cellulite is showing…)

Or tequila?

I’m sure I’ll feel super tomorrow…. right? (Right up until you’re sleeping on a toilet seat enjoying the sweet sweet cold of the ceramic…)

Or tattoos?

Super GREAT Idea!!  Especially if you’re on Spring Break! HELLLOOOO whale tail tramp stamp!   (until you get pregnant and/or turn 50 and your skin is stretched and saggy and now that thing that once used to be Texas now looks much more like California.)

Or riding bikes while intoxicated?

Did you know you can get a BUI?  (Biking while intoxicated)  Also, without a GPS system you can get totally lost even if you think you know where you’re going.

Or Jennifer Aniston movies?

They are never good.  We should all accept that Friends was the only good thing she’ll ever make.  She should stick to being seen on beaches with hot movie stars.  And yet I actually took the fucking time to watch TWO in the last THREE days.  What a colossal waste of time.

Well today I did one of those things that I knew was a bad idea.

And yet I did it anyway.

I attempted a french manicure on my toes.

1.  I suck at precise movements (i.e. little stripes of white)

2.  I keep my toe nails super short because one of my biggest pet peeves in life is long ones.

3. I have the world’s shortest nail beds¹.  The little stripe of white takes up half my toenail.

I look ridiculous.

¹EVERY TIME I have a pedi, the Vietnamese ladies comment on this… like I’m a fucking freak of nature… oooohhhh yoh naih beh so shooor ha ha ha…

Go fuck yourself “Ami”

We’re all stocked up here.

Actually, over stocked.

And I have the best, most crazy shit out there.  It’s like the platinum of crazy.  The fucking kind bud of crazy.  Over the top batshit certifiable bipolar seeing things that don’t exist dancing around in his grandma’s panties¹ kind of nut-bag crazy.

Oh.  I guess I haven’t told you about my ex-husband.

He’s fucking insane.

And he’s driving me to become crazy.

Seriously I’m about to be a homicidal maniac.

Really he should be happy we got divorced.  Us living separately is good for, not only my sanity, but frankly it’s necessary for his safety.

Unfortunately he still has my phone number.

And likes to text.  A lot.  Especially after he’s (what I’m guessing is) 10 beers in.

Lot’s of times he’s telling me that he is 1) going out 2) already out.

I try to be nice and pretend like I care even a teeny tiny bit.

But here’s the thing.  He’s is full of shit.  He has no friends.

I don’t feel bad about this, it’s his own fault.  He had some back in the day but he’s so goddamn self-important he ran everyone off².

Or he’ll do something else random.  Tonight he sent me his facebook status as an “FYI” text (we are not friends on facebook for good reason).  Something about lobster.  I don’t know.  And ya know what?  I don’t care.  (So now, instead of having to listen to him for 8 hours on the back porch, now I just have to put up with his random text messages.)

We made small talk.  At 9:46 all was well and he was “out.”  At 9:53 he was started in about how horrible of a person I am and how he had the diary entry to prove it.

I don’t keep a diary because I am not 11.

He’s spreading crazy like a contagious disease and I wanna catch it as bad as I want a raging case of the herp.

So I think I need an app for my phone that sends an auto response to any text he sends after he’s had anything to drink.  Actually fuck it… I really don’t need to talk to him.  I just need an app that tells him to go away any time he tries to get in touch with me.  I guess changing my number is out of the question though since he still pays my bill.

And no, that does not even begin to make up for the horse shit I have to deal with.

¹Did I fail to mention that I like to use random movie quotes in real like, much like Viv & Coco?

²Which is also bound to run off any potential girlfriends which sucks for me… at this point I’d pay for one myself… well, if my alimony check was better I would.

I’d like to take this time to introduce myself.  I’m Ocho.  I think I’ve been invited on here because I can talk freely without the worry of CPS showing up at my door or some asshole husband threatening divorce… Because I happily have neither offspring or a husband…  I don’t even have a fucking dog.  Well I used to have a husband but I got smart and dealt with that shit… and I let him take the dog.

I have no filter and I left my shame in someone’s dorm room in 1998.  I drink too much, smoke to much, spend too much money but that’s ok cause I can do what I want.  Fortunately I have friends who fill me in on all those times I black out (fuckers are not always nice about it either- bitches- but I’m cool with it- goes back to that “no shame” thing).

I am a dude when it comes to sex.  I use words like “bang” and “nail” (even though I’m constantly debating with myself if it’s appropriate for any girl to use the word “nail” but until I beat myself in this debate one way or another I’ll keep using it).  I will happily “take one for the team” as long as he is hot or is known to be good in bed.  I have a rule about spending the night with people who I expect to be a one night stand.  Get out after sex… morning walk of shames are too awkward.  There is nothing worse than morning (beer) breath on a stranger and I don’t want to have to sit through an even more awkward breakfast.

Likes:

Cheap beer, party pizza, Fresca,Vicodin, sunglasses, shoes

Dislikes:

whiskey, toenails, crotch sweat, Star Wars or Star Trek, shaving, dishes

Turn ons:

Blue eyes, nice teeth, nice body (a six pack doesn’t hurt),Tattoos, trucks

Turn offs:

Crotch hair/sweat, boys who cry, hair gel, people from Jersey, short boys

So, love me or hate me it’s your choice… think I’m a bitch or a slut or a skank or a bitch but I don’t really give a rat’s ass.  Sorry if that hurts your feelings you pussy.

CHEERS!

My mom is here.  We discussed this before I know but guess what- we’re discussing it again.  Why?  Cause if I don’t I think my brain may fucking explode.

I love my parents.  They took my kids for the ENTIRE summer.  You can’t beat that.  Free child care that allows me act like I’m in college again for 2 months.  And they’re totally willing to do it again next summer.  Awesome.

What’s not awesome?  She can aggravate the EVER. LIVING. SHIT. out of me with only a sentence.

1.  She doesn’t drink.  And worse?  She doesn’t like it when other people do.  And frankly, I’ve never needed to drink more.  So the other day, I did.  And I suffered through her judgy comments and eyeballing (which, as it turns out, I care a LOT less about when I’m drunk… go figure).  I finally had to text Ocinda and tell her to call me with something “important.”

2.  She also hates smokers.  Well I don’t do it in front of her but I’m over 30 years old.  If I want to smoke a fucking cigarette I shouldn’t need her approval or, in this case, disapproval.  Much like alcohol, this situation leaves me needing nicotine more than ever.

3.  WHY must she point out shit to me that I obviously already know.

“Wow, you’re really breaking out…”

Oh thanks mom I hadn’t noticed, gone to the doctor and bought a ridiculous amount of face stuff.  Why don’t you next tell me how fat I’ve gotten or how much better I would look if I died my hair blonde and got a tan?  Meanwhile telling me the importance of being frugal and how if I don’t use sunscreen I’m destined to die of skin cancer.  Please point out some other shit that I have no control over.  Why don’t you mention how funny my short nail beds are?

4.  We’re about to go to the beach…

Mom: Are you going to wear one of those itsy bitsy bathing suits?

Me: You mean a bikini?

Mom: Yes.

Me: Yes.”

<insert judgy look of disgust>

Me: What?

Mom:  It makes me uncomfortable.

Me:  It makes you uncomfortable to be around me at a BEACH in a BIKINI?

Mom:  Yes.

Me:  Welp, sorry bout that.

Ocinda pointed out that I should have worn a thong.  If I had one, I totally would have.  Instead I just wore the smallest one I had.

Jesus I’m becoming so passive aggressive.

5.  Speaking of passive aggressive- I hate being that way.  I’m usually just a bitch.  There is no passive about me.  BUT with her, one wrong comment and she’s on the guilt trip from hell… “you’re so mean to me, why do you talk to me like I’m two, blah blah blah”… OH MY GOD YOU HAVE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME.

6.  Nosy nosy nosy.  She’ll sit in the evenings reading people’s facebook status’… “what does so and so mean by this?”  WHO GIVES A SHIT?  I don’t know and I don’t care.  And if something on my facebook isn’t clear, it was meant to be that way, it’s called an inside joke.  I can just imagine telling her about the boat rodeo.

7.  Intolerance with a side of judgment.  Anyone who has tattoos or a “different” color hair, more than two earrings, wears clothes too small, gains too much weight… watch the fuck out.  Whats ironic is that she preaches tolerance and acceptance (I have a sibling with down syndrome) and yet…  this is the conversation the other night…

Mom:  If getting tattoos is supposed to make you an individual why does everyone get them in the same place?

Me:  What do you mean?

Mom:  Why does everyone get them on their ankle or wrist or lower back?

Me:  Well… there are only so many body parts so…

Again in a passive aggressive move, SP made a comment about a guy in a speedo.  I said “SP, he’s from a different country.  That is normal over there so no need to make comments.”

(But dude I totally make fun of people in speedos cause they’re totally disgusting but still…)

Anyways I’m done ranting (for today).  I have another week and a half left of her visit.  While I thought I got enough of getting black out drunk, I’m guessing the weekend after she leaves is gonna contain some more of that.  I seriously just dug a vicodin out of the bottom of my Louis bag, brushed off the tobacco and downed it with my two whole beers.  FUCK THIS.

Forgive me friends for I have sinned, it’s been 65 days since my last  confession.

What have I been doing for the last two and a half months you ask?

Drinking.

A lot.

I also did some boating.

And some eating.

A little bit of working.

But really, mostly drinking.

I just realized that yesterday was the first time since I moved into my house (at the end of May) that I’ve gone grocery shopping.

Not having kids all summer has turned me into a single dude.

Unfortunately due to STBEH and his crazy ass STBEHM I cannot give you details.  Fortunately for you I have a newly single friend Ocho who will soon be a guest writer here on Bitter.  Just cause he’s a pain in my ass doesn’t mean y’all don’t deserve the good stuff.

PS.  Yes, Viv is a slacker.

Dear Jeff Schmizer,
You are a fucking douche bag.  For the record, I could give a shit less that you’ve “repainted hundreds of aircraft”, I just give a shit about being delayed five hours for “maintenance.”  So what I’m saying is, paint the mother fucking planes with rainbows and unicorns for all I care… just make sure they work.  Paint Continental on a United jet and United on a Continental jet, I could care less.  Ya know what I do care about?  Not dying in a fiery crash. And no, your three measly drink¹ vouchers did not make up for having to put up with my children (who I’m pretty sure were possessed by the devil this particular day) in an airport terminal with only a mini chilis and a small shop selling nothing but Miami Heat² crap for half a goddamn day.  Try 12.  That would be a start.

While we’re chatting…

Charging $5.99 for the TV for flights under 2 hours or $7.99 for flights over 2 hours is HORSE SHIT when your flight is two hours and 6 minutes (and no you can’t wait till 6 minutes into your flight…I checked.)  And because its such bologna I’m not paying it out of principle.  So I will suffer through this flight listening to dude next to me make weird nose noises instead of Direct tv JUST TO NOT PAY YOU THOSE TWO EXTRA DOLLARS.  Fuck you.

Charging $4.00 for a can of beer is highway robbery but the least you could do is check on me a little more frequently.  2 cans of beer in 2 hours is the epitome of crap service.  I know flight attendants aren’t bartenders (not exactly sure what it is they do these days) but if you acted like it I’d like you better.

Look, that guy you kicked off the plane for being drunk was an asshole and I’m happy I didn’t have to listen to his loud ass mouth for the whole flight  BUT expecting people to wait around the airport for 5 hours and not get drunk is a little over reaching doncha think?

And since everyone loves to add regulations, I’ve got one for you.  If you can regulate how much someone drinks prior to getting on the plane, you should be able to regulate what people eat… or rather, what they can’t eat prior to being packed into a very small space with 200 strangers.  Someone is letting ass that could rival my dog which, considering he can clear a room in 1.2 seconds, pretty impressive (and by “pretty impressive” I mean absolutely disgusting and I think I might vom.)  A little consideration for your fellow passengers people, seriously.

¹One for each seat but really, what are LB and SP gonna do with coupons for “premium drinks”?  Answer: give it to their mom.

*I’m totally using the one drink coupon I didn’t get to use during my first flight due to their lack of ambition when it came to serving me.  I don’t even feel like drinking (thanks to another late night with Viv- which consisted primarily of her neighbor and I singing “Ain’t No Fun” in an attempt to wake her from her “sleep” and finding out George Michael Live in London was fucking erased by Chet that assclown) but I know it will be a while before I fly again and I’d probably lose the damn paper before then anyway so here i sit, scribbling in the back of my Jen Lancaster book looking like a raging alchy at 3pm drinking my Miller Lite with the shakes (do to the adderall, not actual alcoholism).  I’m getting my four dollars worth dammit.  This is dedication people.

²BWAAAHAAA Screw you LeBron!

Well the North Loaf gang has a new member.  Cupcake’s frat brother moved in a few months ago (yes, this is as bad of an idea as it sounds).  Mr. Smalls came down to “get his shit together” (great place for that) and the night before he drove down he got a dui.  (Off to a good start.)  Mr. Smalls got a job right away working security at the same bar Cupcake works at (really putting those master’s degrees to good use) but needed to make some more cash, you know, for his lawyer and to eat and stuff.  So Cupcake, Mr. Smalls and I were all sitting around the house one day…

Mr. Smalls:  I need to make some more money.  Cupcake, we need to figure out a way to make some more money…  I could be a prostitute.  I’d be okay with that.  Coco, would you be Cupcake and I’s pimp?

(**hold on, quick caveot… Ginger and I have been trying to reform Cupcake from his whorish ways… we made him a gold star chart.  He get’s a sticker for every day he doesn’t go home with or bring home some random)

Me:  Mr. Smalls, how many times have I told you he’s not allowed to fuck randoms?

Cupcake:  That’s like telling Brett Favre he can’t throw a football.

So much for the reformation…

While we’re on the topic of Mr. Smalls…  Memorial Day weekend my brother came down to visit and brought with him a lady friend.  (I will eventually get to the whole story of this weekend, bromance and all, just not right now.)

The Sunday night of the weekend my brother and his new boyfriend ditched me and left me with his lady friend.  Personally I could care less but she was less than thrilled.  We stopped into the bar where Mr. Smalls happened to be working.  I introduced him to my bro’s lady friend, we go about our business getting blitzed.

4 am text messages…

Mr. Smalls:  Is Lady up??

Me:  yes…

Mr. Smalls:  Hm… what are you guys doing on my way home

Me:  Sitting here just got home.  Minor car probs¹   You can join us and see the new house!

Mr. Smalls:  Just leaving KW.  Maybe.  I want to do horrible things to Lady².  FYI.

Me:  Um haha she’s here with my bro…

Mr. Smalls: I don’t care she doesn’t seem to be having fun with him here.  I guess I shouldn’t come over.

Me:  Whatevs

Mr. Smalls: Oh I wouldn’t care just don’t want to start unneeded… strife you could say.  It’s your brother after all

Me:  Well you’re welcome to come hang out and see the new place.

Mr. Smalls:  I will just not tonight.  I’d hit on her without restraint².  I think that would be frowned upon.  I had an odd night as it is.

Me:  Well she just went to bed anyway and bro is passed out.

Mr. Smalls:  Ah man tell her to get up and come to my bed ³

Me:  Will do (^4).  Come see the new house some time… and what Lady did to my car.

Mr. Smalls:  I love you but if Lady isn’t up I’m going to bed.

Me: ass.(^5)

Mr. Smalls:  No offense.  I can’t very well sleep with you.(^6)

Me:  Very true (^7).  Although I’m doubting you could sleep with Lady either given she’s all up in my bro’s shit.  Not that he would care but…

I think he may not be North Loaf worthy anymore.  EW.

¹READ: MAJOR FUCKING CAR PROBLEMS thanks to Lady’s complete inability to park.

²Class.  Act.

³Ha.  Not a chance in hell.

4.  Will definitely NOT do.

5.  Oh Thank God.

6.  No you absolutely can not.  Offended?  Ha.  Ew.

7.  Truer words have never been spoken.  Ew.

Well I guess we’re all aware now of the genius of my STBEH (soon-to-be-ex-husband) and despite that fact that in a few years he’ll be 40, not much seems to be changing.

Our boat has been broken since September (great investment… gotta love paying every month on a giant piece of fiberglass and metal that has done nothing but take up room in our backyard but God knows smart financial decisions are not a strong suit of anyone in my family).  He finally ordered the parts (he thought) necessary to fix it.  Now, he doesn’t know how to fix it, only that it may or may not need this particular part to work…  So he enlisted a friend from work who does know shit and they set out to fix the stupid thing.  Before the friend arrived I walked out to the dock and he was staring at a tool set.

Me:  What are you doing?

Him:  I was gonna loosen the bolts before Cinco gets here.

Me:  Do you know which bolts need to come off?

Him:  Uhhh… mmm… these I think?

Me:  Do you know what kind of tool one might use to loosen said bolts?

Him:  Uhhh… mmm… one of these circle things?

Me:  For the record, this is not a good idea.

Eventually Cinco gets there before he could do any damage.  So I go on about my merry way, moving into my new house.  A few hours later I go to check on the progress (or, lack there of).

STBEH:  Yeah dude, I really like mallet hammers.  I mean I totally think they’re more useful than regular hammers.  Don’t you dude?  Yeah, mallet hammers are definitely my favorite type of hammers.

Cinco: *awkward silence*   Uh… ok…

What?  Please stop talking.  Like now.

Then when we went to turn the boat on we found a host of problems, not the least of which was one of the batteries.  So I go borrow the battery charger from Scrappy (as he has had this particular problem one too many times) and hook it up.  STBEH asks how to do it.  (Has he not jumped a car, ever?)  I tell him “red to red, black to black”.  After I hook it up I go take a nap.  About 30 minutes later LB runs upstairs, “momma!  Daddy needs you.”  So I drag my ass back downstairs.  He’s standing in the boat looking somewhat frantic.

STBEH:  HOW DO YOU KNOW WHICH IS RED AND WHICH IS BLACK??

Me:  The colored wires.  One is black and one is red.

STBEH:  WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?  THERE’S NO COLORS!  WHAT IF IT’S HOOKED UP WRONG?

Me: If it was hooked up wrong it would have blown up.  And yes there are colors.

STBEH: WHERE?

So I craw halfway into the battery compartment and show him the bright red wire cover that leads to the what??  RED SIDE!  And then I show him the thick black wire cover that leads to the what??  BLACK SIDE.

STBEH: oh.

I can tell you one thing, I’ll never be letting him borrow my power tools.

NOTE:  The boat is still not fixed.

So I constantly make fun of all the stupid warning labels companies place on things… I mean really is there someone so stupid that they need the warning label on the birth control PATCH to say “for external use only”?  Oh but guess what… sometimes people need specifics.  It may seem like common sense to you and I but there are people out there that do some really dumb shit.

Here’s a lil story I heard from a friend… Keeping the names out of this for privacy reasons, because even using pseudonyms this is too embarrassing for the people involved.

This boy and this girl were doing it.  A lot.  Like several times a day for hours at a time.  So much sex that it actually ripped the skin on his junk.  The idea of not having sex until it healed properly was clearly lunacy so he went another route.  Liquid skin.

He says he screamed so loud that he was sure the neighbors heard.  He now judges pain on a “1 to Liquid skin on the wiener” scale.

Surprisingly enough, Liquid skin does not have a warning label about not using it on the genitals.  Go figure.  Not that the rest of us would probably need this particular warning, but someone clearly did.

Bottom line boys and girls, if you rip a hole in your privates, do not, I repeat, DO NOT put the equivalent of super glue on your boo boo… just suck up celibacy for a few days.  I’m assured even that isn’t as bad.

Oh sweet baby JESUS.  Did this story not get told?  Just looked through the tags (which are definitely out of date) and HOLY SHIT this story didn’t get told.  I’m actually in shock right now.  Excuse me for a second… or 5.

SO I wasn’t there at this party, understand I’m recalling it from seceond hand knowledge.  But it’s still funny as hell.

Passion party.  Everyone has a good time.  Giggles a bit but everyone orders stuff.  But to save on shipping, all of Marge’s friends ship in the same box to her house.

Few days later… Marge gets a call from the cops.  Some kids were trying to steal the box left on the front porch… Marge comes home… it was the passion party box.

Cops: do you want to do an inventory and make sure it’s all there?

Marge: uhhh no.  I’m ok.

While I’m sure the little hoodlum 12 year olds didn’t make off with a 15” dildo, (although who knows these days) I probably would have let it go too.  But as I said before, what happens at a passion party, DOES NOT necessarily stay at a passion party.