I’m probably the only one in the world that can get tickled walking around Tesco. As you leave, the certain doors have signs on them saying “This door is alarmed.” I’d like to have a t-shirt with a picture of that sign, but changed to say “This human is alarmed.” But then I’m easily amused, and it really wouldn’t matter to me if no one else thought it was funny.

So I realise recently that I’ve been getting alarmed about all the wrong things. Not that it’s something I do all that often. I’m a fairly laid back kind of girl. The other day the veins in my knuckles turned black (in a rather rapid and sci-fi sorta way) and then my fingernails turn purple, and the palms of my hands go blue and then, being slightly alarmed, I go show hubby, who decides to call the hospital (where I’d just had surgery). Meanwhile, WHUMP, I’m unconscious. Drama drama fun fun.

So what do they say? Oh, that’s what happens when you’re going to pass out. If it gets worse (Umm, like how?) then call your General Practicioner. Okay, sure. To be fair, I was two days past a general anaesthetic, which makes one prone to faint and also makes one particularly gullible.

I went ahead and made an appointment with my GP and told her about the Star Trek hands, and she frowned the way she does, but didn’t comment much beyond that except to say, “Hmm, bad circulation.”

And then… and this is the whole point here….

“I’m alarmed at how much weight you’ve lost since I last saw you.”

“Alarmed?” says I, “I’m fricken overjoyed!” Okay, I didn’t really say that, but I thought it. I make a habit of never smarting off to people who control my health, my food, or my money.

I’ve been struggling with my health for a little while, and I make a huge point of not whinging and just getting on with things. Because, in fact, no one else cares, and I really don’t like sympathy. So we’re all better off this way. But at this I draw the line. The ONE good thing that’s come out of this ordeal, (me dropping 25 pounds) and it alarms her.

I’m starting to suspect I’ve spent my entire life getting alarmed at all the wrong things. Like, the fact that the UK has had 5 men held hostage in Iraq for 6 months, and we’re JUST NOW hearing about it, because the hostage-takers released a video. The Foreign Office is condemning the kidnappers for this, but I want to send them a thank you note (the video thing, not the kidnapping, duh). Because our own government doesn’t seem to want to tell us what’s going on. Am I the only one that thinks this? I must be, because the news agencies didn’t bother to bring it up.

I’m alarmed at the fact that my son was not given any books at school, but instead seems to be expected to look everything up on the internet for himself. But the Minister for Education keeps talking about how much money they’re spending on schools and how much better things are getting. So apparantly I have nothing to worry about.   Alarm misfire #2.

And yes, I confess, I was alarmed at the Star Trek hands. But no, according to medical science (and the woman behind the big desk) it’s the fact that I’m 30% less tubby that I should be worried about.  ???

I wish someone would just give me a manual to go with this alarm system, so it wouldn’t keep firing off at all the wrong things.  But as a side note:  screw that… 30% less tubby! Woohoo!

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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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WARNING: If you are a man, a mommyblogger, and/or of delicate nature, you may wish to avert your eyes now. In fact, I’m even going to add a “more” tag to this, because I’d hate to think you got blindsided with details that might upset the balance of your life. I swore I’d never post about ooky things, like diapers and diarrhea, and as far as I’m concered, menstruation falls in the category of things we really don’t need to discuss, however after stumbling across a Mommyblog this weekend, I feel a serious rant burning a hole in my brain, so I’m breaking the rules. By the way, if you want to write me something hateful which I will most definitely ignore, please write to bitterwomen [at] bloggerbingo [dot] com.

DISCLAIMER: I’m sure there are a hecka-lotta intelligent mommybloggers out there. I have met a few, including AnEnglishMum , among others. If you are one and know some others, you could form a “I’m a Mommyblogger But Don’t Have My Head Up My Ass” club. If such a club already exists, please let me know, and I’ll give them a link.

So… click below if you want to read on from here….

(more…)

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I can’t stand it when people pretend to be nice when they’re not. You can spot these people easily on the Internet because they soften caustic phrases with things like:

• j/k (a lazy assed way of saying “I’m just kidding.”)
• Don’t take this the wrong way but….
• I mean that in the nicest way.

Fuck that. Just kidding? No you weren’t. “I’d love to fuck your sister. j/k” See. Deep down you don’t believe it either. Just kidding my ass.

Don’t take this the wrong way? Translation: “I mean it in the ‘wrong’ way, but I don’t want you to punch me in the face for it.”

Ditto for ‘I mean that in the nicest way’.

My dear, Bitter Readers, if you’re going to say something, at least own up to the fact that you mean it. You might get punched in the face for it, but if that’s a problem for you, maybe you should take more care what you say.

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