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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.