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Category: Bitch, Please

Tupperware Hell

As a female of a certain age, I’ve been invited to all types of home parties: make up, candles, clothing, even wigs. But nothing compares to the Hell on Earth known as a Tupperware Party.
You receive an invitation…it promises to be a “fun” night, with refreshments. And there’s “no obligation to buy” anything. Bull…of course you’re obligated, after all, there’s refreshments!
Short of saying a relative died or that you’ll be out of town, you’re trapped. So after sighing heavily several times, you go. Upon walking in, you are hit with an array of plastic storage items; some that you never knew existed. After all, I’ve been reusing the plastic tubs I get my deli takeout in. There are squares for sandwiches; round containers of all sizes, from nuts to a cake (with a cover and handle!) and sectioned crudite containers for parties, butter dishes and pitchers. If you have a house at a lake or the shore, I’m sure this might be of use to you, but since I don’t have a vacation home, did I really need anything? I looked around wildly and took a large slug of the mediocre wine…what could I purchase and not look totally cheap?

The woman hosting the party was extolling the virtues of everything – look, you can transport a cake for the holidays easily! And this 9×12 will hold two dozen brownies, keeping them fresh! And they make great gifts (as if..) for loved ones! As I listened to the group ooh and ahh over the various items, I looked to make my escape – there wasn’t enough wine there to keep me. And then I saw it…it was too adorable. A lunchbox, with various containers for all the things you might put in a lunch…I fell in love. Never mind I rarely (if ever) packed my lunch; this was just too cute for words. So I bought it.
The reason I bring this up is I was cleaning my storage room in the basement the other day and found it, 35 years later. It’s still adorable….and still unused.

Royal Pains

(Note from Modesty: I actually had to do research for this, because I truly don’t give a rat’s arse about the Hapsburgs…er, I mean Windsors)
I don’t understand the American obsession with royals, particularly the British royal family. Didn’t we fight a war to get away from these people? Anyway, the attraction escapes me.  I sort of liked Princess Diana; she was a young woman who was far prettier than horse-faced and grim Princess Anne (do not send me comments chastising me how she’s the hardest working royal…she still looks like Trigger’s sister.) And the jewelry IS fabulous, I’ll give them that.

Kate Middleton seemed like a fun, care-free young lady and then she married Prince Will; now she is the epitome of the perfect Consort-to-Be, still lovely, but the spark that made her likable and approachable seems to have been surgically removed. She’s now the mother of 3 young children, patroness of lord knows how many charities, and now the subject of palace intrigue and scandals…did Wills and Harry have a disagreement? Is she fighting with Harry’s new wife? Does the Queen favor Meghan over Kate now? The tabloids are a-twitter over all of this.
So why do we care? Many point to Meghan Markle, the American actress who married Prince Harry (aka “The Spare”) as the latest reason. Now, I don’t care one way or another that she’s a divorcee, or bi-racial, but the relentless press is reaching ridiculous levels. Did any President’s daughter ever get this kind of coverage? Not in recent times that I can think of…I guess maybe the Bush twins and their shenanigans got coverage for their antics of acting like normal teenagers, instead of the Nixon princesses.
Regardless, it’s just a matter of days, maybe minutes, before Baby Sussex arrives and the hysteria amps up to another level. Will the baby be a boy or a girl, have a traditional name or African one, be raised by a nanny, be a Duke/Baron/Earl upon birth…you get the drift.
And you won’t be able to escape it.

A Day In The Life of My Baby Daddy Payday Loans

I wrote this in 2007 for another blog in another land far away. I’ve retired since, but I thought it deserving of being trotted out just for old time’s sake.

I finally bit the bullet and advised the powers that be to shove their job up their proverbial chocolate whizways last Monday. In good conscience I could not make the effort to earn the scum-sucking bottom feeders another dime toward their blood-sucking enterprise that preys on the misfortune of others. I’m free as a bird, albeit a poor one, but the release was so great and satisfying that I’ll just pull a Scarlett O’Hara fiddle dee dee, I’ll worry about that tomorrow number.

It wasn’t a hard choice to make, really. I was being pushed out of a job from which I intended to retire when the time came, by the Little Big Boss who’s stuck up the Big Boss’ derrière so far he hasn’t been able to blow his nose in months.

Being a mature woman means so little to those in corporate America. Having common sense means nothing as well. I’m not a dumbass, and will not be pushed around by a snotty little snake thirty years my junior whose sole purpose in life is to climb a corporate ladder and beat his feminine little chest while he goes on and on about the new Disney On Ice. Besides.. every time he opens his mouth a purse falls out.

I expect to be beating the streets for gainful employment this week, but in the meantime, I must color my grey hair, lift my wrinkles, buy a new bra and bring my stilettos and fishnets out of retirement.

This time around I’m going for the big time.
(Sidenote) Little Big Boss was later busted for cocaine possession. Oopsy.

Flatware and Kate Spade Boots

Some of you may have heard of Marie Kondo…a lovely Japanese woman who’s taken the world by storm with her method to de-clutter your life. Now, I’m all for getting rid of stuff, but her method makes my head tilt and go “Hmmm…”

Marie thinks you should hold every item and ask if it gives you “joy” – if it doesn’t, you thank it, and put it in the discard pile. Joy over a pair of pajamas? Now if I stopped to thank every thing I want to toss, I’d be here for 50 years…and how does one actually determine if something gives you joy? My sterling flatware doesn’t give me joy, but there’s no way in hell I’m getting rid of it. 

So, I went in my closet and here’s what I found: a pair of black suede Kate Spade boots I have no recollection of buying, so that gave me great joy. Six pair of black pants, which to me is the perfect number to have. I found $52 in handbags that I went through and designated to donate….again, great joy! Seriously, I did gather a large amount to donate, but thanking each item? No, I was ripping through things hoping I’d find a gold bracelet or something I forgot I had.

Much like the cult of Oprah, women have embraced Marie Kondo with the enthusiasm of teenagers and the latest K-Pop band…they are introducing their children into culling their belongings (a good thing) by holding it and asking if it brings joy, which I personally find weird.

By the way, does this extend to husbands?

Bitch, Please

**Sarcasm intended so don’t get yer knickers in a twist, m’kay?

I’m a trad white woman, my shit has no smell on it, and I will be married 40 years come September; to the man of my dreams. He brings home the bacon so I can fry it up in a pan, and I dote on his every need so he doesn’t have to… all the way down to ironing his socks with a cool smoothing iron. We have 12 children… not because we’re Catholic, but because I just can’t shut my legs or bring myself to use contraception. They’re all such perfect little darlings because I rule with an iron fist and never allow them to consort with anyone who doesn’t fit our core family values.

I don’t really bother with others’ feelings; having been an early adopter of looking down my nose at those I consider to be inferior to my little perfect self. When I’m not reading Nancy Drew and romance novels at five o’clock every morning, I’m itching to get to my little online world in which I spend eight hours belittling other women for their senses of humor and wit, because let’s face it: I’m just better than they are. I love posting photos of pretty white girls in dresses and group hopping with others of my ilk, because we share the same values in name-calling, being especially partial to “THOT”, a phrase which we all just learned last week.

I don’t believe in women in the workforce because it’s a man’s place to provide for his loving wife and family. To even entertain the idea makes my tummy feel all shaky; but my doctor makes sure I have pills for that. After Westboro Baptist were almost totally outed for the smear artists they are, I needed to find a new venue for my message. So it’s white nationalism for me baby… now and always!