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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I’ve warned you before that I’m a crap poet, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy it. So rather than explain the night I had last night, I thought I’d share this little bit of gastronomical insight with you.

Why Does My Tummy Get Upset?
by Jayne MacIntyre

Of all the bits we’ve got
And of all complaints we get
From temples down to toes
Why does Tummy get upset?

Our eyes don’t get irate
Nor our elbows get annoyed
Our ankles seem quite placid
And any arguments avoid

Why even when we’re achy
Have a fever through and through
Not even snuffled noses
Moan and cry like Tummies do.

So what is Tummy’s problem?
We demand to know just who
Causes so much aggravation
And emotional to-do.

I had hoped that you would ask me!
Said Tummy with a cry.
You treat me rather nicely
With the ice cream, mints and pie

It started with your pancreas
(She’s really quite a bother)
Then your liver took her side
And sense would not have stopped her.

Then your heart reminded me
How far I was below
And your bowel got irritated
Said I’d mucked up the show!

Your spleen is just plain spiteful
Without logic, sense or reason
They’ve all gone and ganged up on me
I’m telling you it’s treason!

I don’t have to put up with this!
I think I might walk out!
Of course I’m quite emotional
And rail and sometimes shout

So your elbows don’t complain?
I don’t suppose they do.
They don’t have to put up
With all the things that I’ve been through!

Aha, I truly understand
I have nosy neighbours too
So remember to be patient
If your Tummy upsets you!

——

© Copyright Bitter Women Poetry 2007. All Rights Reserved. Yes, I’m actually telling you not to copy or distribute this vomit inspired poem. — Jayne

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The last couple of days I’ve been talking about life, expectations, and hamburgers.

Well, apparantly I’m not the only one with unrealistic expectations. My son put on his gift wish list that he wanted a “shock gun”. The way this site works is that you can add stuff from any site to your wish list, so I clicked the link and it took me to the site where I could buy it. The description is:

Running around like a couple of kids going “bang bang” with laser guns is, well, quite fun. But where’s the fear? Where’s the adrenalin? If you’re going to play silly buggers there’s got to be an edge - you have to have something to make your heart beat faster. Otherwise you might as well grab a bag of nachos and flop in front of the box.

Well, this Shocking Guns kit adds that vital kick. Two players, two chunky guns, and two ‘target’ plates you wear on your chest are all the kit you need. Now when you shoot your mate (and you better make sure it’s that way round), instead of there just being a lame beep, your mate gets an electric shock through the handle of their gun. Now, how neat is that?!

Is he OUT OF HIS MIND???? Does he actually think I might buy him a gun that would electrocute his friends?

Apparantly so.

And yes, we’re doing Christmas lists (for him) already, but only because we have family overseas and shipping takes a while.

I’m one of these people that gripes every year about Christmas creeping up earlier and earlier. [insert standard rant here] However, Americans should count themselves lucky. At least you have the Thanksgiving barrier. Here we have nothing. I went into a bakers the other day to get some goodies, and they had, I kid you not, bat cookies left over from the day before, I suppose (This was November 1st, I recall), and they also had…. Christmas cakes. I commented on it, and the lady behind the counter said “Well it IS only 8 weeks away. People need the extra time to get ready.”

Statements like this make me think everyone else is planning big banquets and balls. Heck it didn’t take me 8 weeks to plan my wedding. But then that’s the kind of girl I am.

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