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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I woke up this morning to the truly wonderful aroma of momma’s home made chicken soup. Okay I slept really really late today. Having endured a minor procedure on Monday, my internal clock, and my body, are all messed up. So I thought… mmm… soup. And then I thought… surely hubby isn’t in there cooking?!? Awww. He’s not really a gourmet, so I thought maybe he bought something pre-made-up at the market and just warmed it up. But still! Sweet!

The closer to the kitchen I stumbled, the hungrier I got. I tell ya, this soup was really starting to make my mouth water! Anyway, in the tradition of action movies, I’ll cut to the chase. I shuffle to the kitchen, slavering, only to find that indeed, he had been preparing a meal… for the cats. What I was smelling was Friskey’s Chunks O’ Chicken.

For just a moment I really really missed the hospital drugs. Good stuff that.

So this minor procedure involved a couple of stitches in the mid-section. And suddenly, I wake up in the middle of the night, in absolute agony from just trying to roll over, and I think… dammit… if I was Bruce Willis, I would have been able to take a bullet in the gut and get back up and have a fistfight with someone… and win.

Granted that I couldn’t win a fistfight against Bruce Willis (Or Segal, or Stallone, or Jolie or whoever is popular for pretending to kill people these days) on the best of days, but seriously. Life just isn’t like an action movie. If someone looked at me funny in a dark alley I’d be out of commission for a couple hours, but taking a bullet (or a couple of sound kicks even) would not leave me racing through the streets of Bejing after the notorious drug smuggler who killed my family and burned down my grandma’s house. (Sorry, Gran)

Also, I find myself completely out of one-liners right now. Dammit where is Segal when you need him!

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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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As many of you will have heard, David Beckham has recently been hired by Georgio Armani to model underwear…. for £20,000,000. Yes, that’s twenty million pounds. Not bad for standing around getting your picture taken and trying to look blase, constipated, and interesting all at the same time. (Models do have it tough!)

Which brings me to my point, that my husband is a big, fat liar.  Okay, this isn’t actually my point, but it’s a way-point.  He said to me, upon hearing this news, that, hell, he’d let someone take pictures of him sans trousers for 20!  And I said, of course, you idiot.  Anyone would model underwear for twenty million pounds.  He said, no, I mean twenty POUNDS.  Well, deal, said I.  So I went to get my wallet and camera, only to find he had sprinted off down the hall.  If he had actually been sans trousers at the time, I would have snapped the shots anyway, but sadly, he made the deal with breeches intact.  Hmph!

So… now the actual point.  How much would it take?  Sure, twenty million is enough, and twenty quid is too little, but what exactly is my ass worth?  Now, keep in mind, that although my BMI is about 28, I do have a little bit of pride.  If someone is going to snap my 28 ass, it’s gonna cost them.  But how much?

Well, ten grand isn’t enough, I think.  That would pay the rent (um, maybe) but not buy me any chocolate (an ass like this has to be maintained, mind you.)  I’d need enough to make up for the fact that I wouldn’t be able to face my friends, and would have to make newer, tubbier friends.  So… the question is really how much are my friends worth?

I think a hundred grand ought to do it.  So how much is your ass worth?

Georgio, if you’re reading this… you can reach me at the email address above.

————-

Note to bitter friends:  Will be unavoidably unable to blog for a few days.  Hope to be back toward the end of next week!  Girl-Fren might be convinced to keep you company while I’m gone.

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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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