OK. Now remember, we’re Blogging for Bitter Women, and–male or female–no matter your age–kids–no kids–we all have thought we have a (fill in the blank) job.

 I’ve been around long enough to (dimly) recall the [wink, wink] talk of referring to the little woman as a Domestic Engineer (which was designed to make homemakers feel better about all the grunge, snot and excrement the job involves.)

Our good friends at MSN’s Careerbuilder division (hmmm?) give us some truly yuckey job descriptions for our consideration.  Want to feel better about yours? Have a look at the Slime Line Worker. Tired of wiping poopy little behinds? Consider the Proctologist.  (How these folks got onto the same list, though, eludes me, as one requires a BS, MD, Internship then Specialty. I make that roughly 15 years of training.)  The SLW earns $9.87/hour, whereas the Proctologist’s average annual salary divides out to $186.90/hour [that is based on a 40 hour week, 52 weeks annually.]

I can identify with several, as it happens; when I cannot go on, slide off into a deep, dark depression, well the coal miner’s job sounds a lot like that.  The Coroner description hits close to home, as well, except my clients are all alive, talk back and want lunch RIGHT NOW.  Give yourself a break, BWs. Pour a cuppa, put your feet up and consider a job swap with any of these.  Tell us how it turns out—you get special Braggin’ Rights if you write your response as poetry. While Jayne is recuperating, we’ll tape it on her fridge.  TTFN.

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As you rightly point out, Jayne, there are things that people just don’t want to hear about. You were right to turn to the laments of the bards, the comfort of the shepherd–high away in summer pastures, alone with his flock, the plaintive cries of the lonely should be heard only by … er … the gods, certainly … and not much of anybody else.

There are times when I also turn to versifying.  Although you know me to be shy about sharing my poetry, remember: you started it Sweet-Cheeks.

I was recently in a group of college instructors, eating Fritos at tables, coffee, tea, brown bags aplenty, and of course the lo-o-o-o-ng run for the American Presidency came up (could sex and religion be far behind?) with all its issues.  Now, Americans have issues aplenty: a few States have passed their own redundant laws outlawing being an illegal alien and ain’t it an outrage, them self-same illegals expecting to receive free medical care, free educations, and assisted housing–to name but a few.  Black Americans insist rather vehemently that its all about race–as though shit only happens to persons of color–which turned the talk to the Democrats: Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton. 

Now, mind you, girl frens, I love such talk but usually stay out of it. I make mental notes, giggle to myself, munch my Frito-Pie and feel smug.  —-and I know you’re wondering, Jayne, “What the hell does this have to do with crap poetry and all night Tummy Aches?”  I’m getting there.

I overheard a side conversation between two women, each African-American, that went something like this:

Shit, ain’t no decision to be made, here; I’d vote Re-damn-Publican before I’d vote for a White Woman, gnome seine?

You know das right!  The other one said. I quit eavesdropping

I wasn’t going to tell you this, but I’ve been white and female all my life. Big surprise coming: all manner of things have happened to me, many of which I did not bring on myself. If you want to hear them, though, you’ll have to spring for the Margaritas. I don’t work cheap. My question in all this is: How many times must I sit and listen to people (of any stripe) tell me that bad things do NOT happen to white people without getting in-their-goddam-face about it?   This day, I blotted my fair lips, politely folded the paper napkin and brushed non-existant crumbs off the table surface before muttering about getting on to my next class and how nice it is to see all of you.

I didn’t have a class.  I stumbled–after the fashion of writers everywhere–to the corner pub, ordered a whiskey and wrote a poem.

           The Middle-Class White-Woman Blues

When a white woman get the blues,

days sumpthin’ lackin dere.

                    A blond thats moping

                    in a floral Chintz, wing-back chair

                    has a hard time gittin’ her girl frens

                    to come  ‘round and care.

The icemaker won’t work.

The baby has a chill.

The postman tipped his cap

and left the orthodontist’s bill.

                    I got the blues,

                   low down conflicted blues.

                   My life ain’t what it looks like

                  I-want-a-‘nuther-chance blues.

My boy puked on the carpet

(smell won’t go away);

Married Ladies Card Club

meets at two o-clock today.

                    I got the blues,

                   low down inconsistent blues.

                   My life ain’t what it looks like

                    I-want-my-carpet-cleaned blues.

If you tap your foot in two-four time, imagine swirls of cigarette smoke filling the air, a dirty bare wood floor and the tinny sound of old guitar strings, you’ve captured the atmosphere.  It isn’t finished but the pain won’t go away so I imagine I’ll be sitting here, tapping my foot, drinking whiskey until it is.  Stop in and tell me about it, Sistas.

Copyrighted material. Yes, I know, but no–not even to spam your friends–you do not have my permission to copy this and send it around.  Give ‘em a link to Bitter Women ferchristsake.

- 2007 - Chilé Cooper

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             A guy named Mitch Altman invented  the gadget of our dreams that he calls “TV-B-Gone” — countless frequent travelers before him have surely wished for a way to turn off all those obnoxious TVs yammering away at us in bars, lounges, and waiting rooms.

            Remember sitting on a sticky plastic couch, near death’s door, eyes running, head throbbing, chest aching—in the doctor’s waiting room only to be assailed by “The Jerry Springer Show” featuring two fat women from Arkansas or Tennessee pulling each other’s hair, whilst revealing a bit of butt-crack during the fracas, arguing over who done whom wrong with whose “man?”

           Or, you’ve nicely handled the news that still another flight had to be cancelled due to whatever, decide to console yourself with a small drink and nice meal, only to view–in living color–an autopsey on one of America’s proliferation of CSI shows. (How they can scheduled them to fit the dinner hour is uncanny.)

           Well, it had to happen! Mitch had all he could stand, marched right out to the garage, down to the basement or the workshop and whips out a “TV-B-Gone.”

           Manufactured by Cornfield Industries and available through Amazon.com and your nearby Target store.

           Life just doesn’t get better than this (unless, of course, all masters of all Jerry Springer-like shows vanished into the ether….as though someone had invented, say, the “Garbage-B-Gone.”)  Imagine how much fun it would be at home – if you happen to be married to a Remote-Hog–even if you can’t change the channel with it, you can turn it off.  Failing that, just buy yourself a universal remote, program it and keep it behind that little pink cushion you use behind your behind. He’ll never find it there.  Cheers, girl friends.

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Jayne, it should be obvious “What’s Going on in Florida,” sweetness: Bingo, Spankings, and, um, Taking Matters in Hand.  But, Hmmm. “Will I become smarter if I stop masturbating?”  Oh, dear.

I started to leave a little comment….when I’d actually done research, realized I couldn’t stop myself with just a comment…..

This guy–and I know it IS a guy; just feel it in my bones–has either been fired from yet another job for some dumbass thing he’s done such as “spanking the monkey” while on the clock, OR his picture was among those featured in The Smoking Gun’s LABOR DAY TRIBUTE (of sorts) TO THE AMERICAN WORKER.

These bozeaux and bozettes were arrested, hauled down to the pokey, fingerprinted and (smile) mugshot for crimes committed while still wearing their work uniforms, ferchristsake. (And don’t get all churchy about my cussin’ — one of them was employed, coincidentally, by a Tampa FLORIDA church.)

I didn’t investigate to learn whether said crimes were against their employers or, mayhap, they popped out to knock off a liquor store on lunch break. 

BTW, to the inquirer: “No, stopping masturbating will NOT make you smarter.”  Despite what parents have told countless generations of young boys about blindness, someone’s parent(s) ignored the very real possibility of heriditary idiocy, lied and has made the poor boy believe wanking (and not their southern tendencies toward familial intermarriages for several generations) which is to blame. Don’t believe a word of it; I stopped briefly.  It only makes one cranky.

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I think I’ve had a religious experience. Yes. No shit. Lecturing a fresh batch of Freshmen the other day–I was once again challenged about my syllabus’ prohibition of using religious texts in support of a point of argument in an academic paper.

I think I’ve had a mini-stroke, or something, because I couldn’t remember how I did it last time.  (I really want to say, “Oh, shut the f**k up.”)  Instead–new day–new student–I’m the grownup here, I quiet my inner teenager.

So, I poll the class, arm extended imploringly, palm open and upward. Well, it was after lunch. All their blood drained away from the brain, digesting all those McLunches, only a few earnest kids raised in southern Sunday Schools ventured replies. One of them–an open-faced, sweet-appearing, chubby farm-girl-looking-person toward the back table says, “…whut….’cuz we’re, like, different, like, ‘n ever’buddy thanks they’re right…like…y’know.”

“Excellent point,” I aver, enthusiastically.  I’m losing them, though, and I know it; glazed eyes look back at me.

“If you don’t mind a little personal information, I’ll tell you that I have found inner peace and life’s purposes since coming to know the teachings of the Dalai Mamma.”

A few sat up straighter; two exchanged looks, eyebrows raised. The buggers were–praise Christ–paying attention. But then, so was I! I was winging it…it was working…I leaned toward the fat-farm-gal-looking student, confiding, “I’ve seen her. The Dalai Mamma sits on a throne–like in Sunday School cartoons–but she’s dressed in red–satin–a long, well-fitted gown with a slit up the front so that when she leans forward to, er, do her God things, one can see her legs.  She wears red patent-leather pumps with three inch heels. The most amazing thing about the Dalai Mamma” — you can tell I was grooving — into it — I was seeing what I was describing — “She Has Wings.”

They were waiting for a punch line.  I didn’t have one. This was one of those things that people who refer to themselves as Educators call a Teachable Moment and I was NOT going to fuck it up.  I went on.

“In the teachings of the Dalai Mamma–(an aside) and I personally believe they’re inspired–she lays out the pathway to enlightenment with such crystalline clarity–I’m just sure we would all prosper by following them. I surely have.”  A few were grinning. A few looked puzzled. The fat-farm-girl looked pissed. The moving about in their chairs and talking started.  They got it.

Thing is, so did I.  I’d had some kind of revelation and in it the Dalai Mamma came to me and saved my bacon.

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