First, I want you to know that I’m as romantic as the next girl while bearing in mind I also have a practical streak; I can appreciate doing the right thing for the wrong reason. When a couple-dozen of America’s young women are willing to compete ON TV for cash prizes, 15-minutes-of-Fame, and a marriage proposal from a total stranger, well, I get choked up. It’s the American Way! 

[Note: having burned my bra in the day and learned to be proud of who I AM, such as it is, as opposed to piggy-backing my worth based on my hubby’s accomplishments, I’ve long since developed a sour taste for those whose human development isn’t as it might be with a little effort.]

What I’m saying is, does it surprise you that a beauty queen wannabe, a Cheerleader–ferchristsake–for a pro-football team, would join the ranks of those competing for the glass slipper….er….ring and proposal from The Bachelor.

The Bachelor is an original one hour prime-time reality television series that gives one man and 25 women the unique opportunity to find true love in a most exciting and adventurous way. The Bachelor will get to know the 25 women in a series of fun, exciting and exotic dates that will elicit real and raw emotions. Along the way he must follow a gradual process of elimination, as his…

Now, for the happily ever after part.  You’re gonna love this.  Mary Delgado, winner of The Bachelor proposal in 2004, was arrested two days after Thanksgiving for punching out the man she lives with, whom she describes as her fiance (after living with him for three years.)  The reason for the assault wasn’t given, nor her fiance’s name–however, it WAS NOT The Bachelor who proposed to her in ‘04.  She was released from the pokey a short while later.  Ah, romance.

I don’t know about you, but I like my fairy tales with happier endings–after all, the original Cinderella was a mistreated, hard-working stepchild for whom all ended well. Even if you prefer Liberation Literature, it’s plainly not nice to punch a guy’s lights out, spend time in the slammer for it, then expect to ride away in a mouse-drawn pumpkin.  But that’s just me; I could be wrong.

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Here I thought I’d have to search for nutty things they are trying to get us to do. Indeed, not!

Today’s headline is “Can Your Diet Make You Young?”  WHAT NOW?  It isn’t enough that  we females, Bitter or otherwise, from when we’re just out of our nappies are brainwashed to moisturize, avoid UV rays (which requires living like a vole, if I’m understanding correctly), stay slim, keep our sexual appetites healthy and vigorous, “put out” often, garden organically, design & decorate our homes with impressing others in mind, and attend university so we might excel in a profession (and the snootier, the better.)  BWs are also encouraged in ways to keep households free of chemicals, to think green  to save the planet, and, oh, did I mention “stay slim”?

Having faced down facism wherever we encountered it, dieted to fit into our wedding gowns on our 25th anniversaries (did I mention “stay slim”?), we are now to believe that a specific diet can (and will) make us young.

I have a question for them: What about all the cash I shelled out for nips and tucks, facials, makeup, push-up bras? What about all the gym memberships, not to mention the wardrobe to wear at said gyms? Now someone is threatening to make me live longer?  Do THEY have any idea how long it has been since my sagging ass was pinched by someone who didn’t accidentally crowd me on a bus?

NO!  Hell, NO!  This is just another goddam con job; we won’t live longer. As was the case with all that other crap they said I should become or do in order to justify taking up space on the planet, it won’t actually make me live longer. It’ll just seem longer.

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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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Why do only women have guilty pleasures*, like watching Grey’s Anatomy or eating a cup full of peanuts with chocolate sauce poured over it, having sex with the UPS guy, spitefully viewing America’s Next Top Model?

Is it that men don’t feel guilty about pleasure?

Or am I wrong about the gender difference?

So what’s your guilty pleasure? What fun, food, cheap fiction or flight of fancy do you like to indulge in? (God, I love alliteration. Sorry about that.)

Me? I like to go into the kitchen and sneak marshmallows from the cabinet and pop one in my mouth when I’m passing through. I suppose what does it for me is the sneaky secretiveness and the eating something that has absolutely no nutritional value, real or imagined.

*I did a google search for “guilty pleasures” and found that a lot of people, by the way, are very close to mentally ill and I don’t think, technically, that being obsessed with weighing your own poop is a guilty pleasure. I was going to link to the place I found that, but on second thought… umm… no, I won’t. I tell ya… google is a scary place sometimes.

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Reporters keep asking, “Is American Ready For A Woman President?” And even though 92% of Americans polled by CBS say yes, dumbass journalists keep asking the question.

My favourite response to this question comes from Elayne Boosler when she said, “Go To Hell. ” But then there are others who say that America isn’t ready, because somehow a person capable of running for office isn’t capable of dealing with accusations of being a lesbian . Now I’m not a big Clinton supporter, but you have to agree that it says something for someone when the worst insult they can come up with is to say you’re tough, bitchy, and probably a lesbian. Note that among those “insults”, nobody has called her stupid.

So it’s journalists that are asking the dumb question, and not “real” people, but just to play along, what would they, the voting American public, have to do to get ready?

I suppose it depends on what you think might happen when a woman gets elected. We’ve had female leaders in the UK and around the world, and I don’t think it required that they reprint all the ballots in pink, nor did they have to close down the government one week out of four. Amazing, huh?

I suppose the biggest thing that needs to be decided before an American woman can become president is what to call her husband. The First Gentleman? That sounds… ridiculous. However, considering that there is only one woman running for president, and were she to win, her husband will be called, as he is entitled to be called for the rest of his life, President Clinton, then it really isn’t something we need to struggle with for a few more years.

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