I do not hate ALL men, let me make that perfectly clear!

I have just received a kind email from a man who wanted to write in defense of men. Don’t bother, honey, I know they aren’t all wife abusing, selfish, lying, cowardly bums. And if I ever gave anyone that impression, PLEASE let me clear that up. I truly love men! I want one! I need one! I could use one for the evening! The fact that I told the truth about Rick and it ended up on Cruel.com is not a reflection of how evil all men are...just one specific man.
Of all the things he has ever done to me, I think the worst is that he made me understand country music. For that, I will never, ever forgive him. The bruises have healed, my car doesn’t run but it is insured (see That Was Stupid), I haven’t been thrown out of my home yet and I am getting over the pain of it all. But, the comprehension of the compositions of Loretta Lynn and her type will be with me forever. Talk about cruel.
So, men, please do not take offense. Just be proud that you are not the subject of this blog. If you were, it would be your picture that people would be laughing at. I sent Rick’s picture to a lady and she responded, ever so apologetically, saying he looked like a child molester. I didn’t say that, she did. But it did make me think, just how old is his wench du jour? For all I know, she is 17 years old. How else could you explain her attraction to him? My excuse is that I was drinking pretty heavily when I met him. That was over 22 years ago and I see things much more clearly nowadays.
To be fair, I will also post a picture of myself. And let me first say that my nose is not as large as it appears, I swear. I don’t care what I do to look nice, my nose comes out looking like Durante’s. But, I also swear, that Rick’s head IS most certainly as bald as IT appears. Something you won’t see in the picture, luckily for you (although I will never get the picture out of my head) is the fact that his size 12 feet have no correlation to anything else on his body, if you know what I mean. Personally, I think it’s the hands that speak volumes. Or in Rick’s case, a few VERY SHORT words.
You know, when I met Rick, he grossed me out. But liquor is a crazy drug. He kept coming around and coming around and he started to look less disgusting. Damn. Many people have asked me what in the world I was doing with such a cretin and I have no excuse. I don’t know. So, let me say to the world, I will check references next time and I will run at the first sign of a skidmark. Any man that hasn’t gotten the toilet paper thing down after close to 50 years of ass-wiping experience will not darken my door step, I promise.
So, do you understand, men? It isn’t all of you, just that one. I know you are all out there trying to figure us out and doing your best to make your women happy. For that, I thank you. And you know what? I am going to tell you a little secret. Only because I adore men and need to placate the ones who think I am a man hater, here you go: you can tell the difference between a real orgasm and a fake one by looking at her nipples. If she faked it, they will be flat. If she didn’t, they will be...perky.
So, men, are we cool? I hope so. And, ladies, if you have a good one, let them know how good they are. Sometimes we get so wrapped up in our own needs that we forget that the testosterone induced have a few of their own. And to the kind man from Kennesaw who wrote to me, keep the faith.

Notes on my next stand up routine

I am a bit nostalgic for the 70’s, a time when cops didn’t bust you for possession of weed, they simply re-possessed your weed. The 70’s were great, you could have all the sex you wanted without fear of any hideous sexually transmitted disease. Well, there was that genital wart scare in 78 but the doctor assured me they weren’t warts, they were just calluses. Well, obviously, if I was smoking weed in the 70’s, I am probably about middle aged. Now, being the middle aged lady that I am, I made a conscience decision not to use gratuitous cussing. I wouldn’t say cock if I had a mouthful. Actually, being middle aged isn’t so bad, except for the spinal disintegration, liver spots and the realization that I am actually older then the character Ethel Mertz. I think I may even be Edith Bunkers age but I‘m not sure. At least I don‘t have Oprah arms or the dowagers hump. Have you heard of that one? It’s a collection of fat located on your back right about the same place a bison keeps its’ fat store. If you still don’t know what it is, just ask your mother in law.
One bad thing about being middle aged is that there are so few legal ways to amuse ones self. I can get creative though. Once a week or so, I go to Wal-Mart, find a guy shopping alone, wait until he isn’t looking, toss a douche bag in his cart, get behind him in line and wait to see the look on his face as the cashier scans the douche bag. I slay me. I used to get the biggest kick by taking a piece of thread, stick it in my husbands nostril while he’s sleeping and twist it around until he awakens. That’s what he gets for snoring. Sometimes, when I am all alone, I sit on my couch and interview myself. I find me a fascinating interview!
I’ve been watching those judge shows lately. That Judge Judy is a bitch! “You madam, are and idiot and a whore.” Actually, she’s usually right, you just expect a little more respect in a court room. She’s right because who is usually suing whom? Women who move men into their homes, take them shopping for new wardrobes, co-sign on a new car for the guy, give him the PIN number to her ATM card and give up all the free sex he wants. In my day, we made them vow to support us for the rest of our lives, listen to us whine, stop screwing every other woman he sees, and if he does see a good one, he best get whiplash turning his head in the opposite direction, he better remember anniversary’s, even the stupid ones like our first date, read our minds, buy our tampons and THEN we only give it up when we want to. Nowadays, at the very least, four long island ice teas and it’s a go.
I am from a land they call Chicago. And yes, I know the difference between a Yankee and a damn Yankee. I even know the difference between a northern fairy tale and a southern fairy tale. In the north we start ours by saying, “Once upon a time“... In the south, they start them “You all listen to this shit“....I firmly believe we need Ebonics for Yankees. Shortly after I moved here, I needed some guitar strings and the only road I knew was 41 so I drove up and down 41 looking for a guitar shop. I couldn’t find one so I eventually stopped to ask for directions and a sweet old lady in a luggage shop was telling me which Waffle House to turn at when the guy behind her started looking confused. Finally he asked the old lady, Where are you sending her?” “Firestone”, replied the old lady. “Firestone?” asked the guy. “Yeah, she wants a gud tar shop.” Let me rephrase that, GEETAUR shop.
My husband wouldn’t appreciate this at all. He has a Van Gogh’s ear for comedy. But, if you see a middle-aged white guy with a spare tire, don’t say a word. I recently found out he was smarter than I had thought. He told me he thought I should initiate sex more often. Turns out he was right. The mailman delivers to the door now.
There’s a new reality show called Mr. Personality. Women choose a date from a group of blue masked men. Monica Lewinski hosts it. What perfect casting, I don’t think she ever saw her lovers’ face either. There are some men that need a mask, is it me, or is Fabio one ugly SOB? Yeah, he’s got a great body but that doesn’t make up for his butt ugly face. And since when did people have to be all buff to have a good body? I remember when all you had to do to have a good body is NOT to have a bad one.
Why is it that when you ask a man what he is thinking, he says nothing? How do they do that? I’ve been trying for decades. Actually, I recently accomplished it. I thought about absolutely nothing. It scared the bejeesus out of me. I was afraid my brain would stop and never start again. There are so many things that bother me and keep me thinking constantly. I have many questions. Why don’t they put that anti-bacterial crap where it belongs? On Edible Underwear. They make ear muffs, why not nipple muffs? A good Chicago winter could destroy a few good shirts. Anyway, I value my nipples far more than those funky looking ears.
In my real life, I am a nurse and I work with the elderly to make myself appear younger in comparison. And ladies, I have some good news and some bad news. The good news is that breast implants remain in place for decades. The bad news is that the breasts themselves do not. The poor old guys are confused enough already; they don’t need this kind of puzzle.
Speaking of four breasts, Melissa Etheridge has just asked her girlfriend to marry her. They celebrated their engagement by eating out. That’s what you call fine diving.
No post to my blog would be complete without telling you more about my husband. He is a self-made man who worships his creator. A self-made man who is a classic example of unskilled labor. He’s a man with no enemies but intensely disliked by his friends. He’s a man who loves nature in spite of what his has done to him. I don’t know the technical term for his problem but the common description is delusions of adequacy. But there isn’t anything wrong with him that re-incarnation wouldn’t cure. When he moved from Arkansas to New York, he lowered the IQ in both states. He is a reminder to the ladies that you never know what will come up out of the ground when it rains.

That was stupid

One lovely morning I walked out to my mailbox and took out my mail. As I went through all of the usual junk mail, I saw an official looking envelope. It was from the Georgia Department of Motor Vehicles. It couldn't have been from Kansas or even Illinois, it was Georgia!

Somehow, I had let my husband talk me into moving away from everyone I knew and bring me to a place that is the punchline in most of my jokes. I don't blame him anymore, I could have hopped out of the car somewhere north of the Mason-Dixon line but no...I stayed put as he took me deeper and deeper into a time warp.

The letter said that my car insurance had been canceled and therefore, my car registration was no longer valid. That was stupid, he is just as responsible for any accident I get into. I guess I should have taken it as a sign that he trusted my driving but he should have considered the possibility that I would slam my car into a Mercedes just for spite. But, with age comes a greater appreciation for one's spine so I didn't do that. I just stopped driving the car as I have a healthy respect for the Georgia Penal System. That makes getting a job somewhat difficult so I decided to use my writing skills to earn a few bucks. Hence, this blog began.

I have been amazed at the responses I have been receiving. I expected emails from women who could relate but it is the men who are writing to me! And, you know, I absolutely adore men. If my husband knew about this he would surely say to the men, "Don't encourage her!" but, as of this moment, he doesn't know about this blog. With any luck at all, he will read about it sooner or later.

That's where I need your help.

When you are married to an intelligent, eloquent woman who has been published numerous times, it is wise to be nice to her. Otherwise, you may read about yourself in the morning paper and that is rarely a good thing. But somehow this intelligent woman married a bit of a moron. Hormones can be a dangerous thing. They caused me to marry him and caused his hair to fall out (of course it is possible that it just fell in and clogged up his brain). In my stand up routine, I often made light of our marriage when it was good, what in the world did he think I would do when it went bad? Oh well, my father warned me not to marry any more men who's last names ended in a vowel, so I accept full responsibility for it.

Anyway, back to you and what you can do to help. If you find my blog entertaining, as sad as it is, please pass it on to someone you know. I am going to be updating it daily as time permits. You will be in on the daily struggles of a woman in the midst of a divorce. (Have you ever tried to write the word divorce without singing to yourself, "Our D-I-V-O-R-C-E, became final today?") If this thing gets around enough, even his mother will have to admit that perhaps her little Ricky isn't as perfect as she thinks he is. Now, if I had a legal car, I might be able to go out and get a real job so I could pay the bills but I don't. So, this is all I have.

Some women are famous because of their looks, some just because of dumb luck, eg. Paris Hilton. I want to become the woman that Rick married, lied to, became violent with, left car-less, and cheated on while I was sick and then as I was trying to get over surgery to remove tumors on my parathyroid glands. Well, duh, it just occurred to me that I am all of that, but you know what I mean. This isn't bitterness, it is making lemonade out of lemons. At least that's what I told my father.

Now, I don't want to be Queen Elizabeth, and I don't want to be insanely rich. I just want to pay my bills. Not too much for a girl to ask for. As I write this, I think I have the bills paid through the end of the month so that doesn't leave me much time. If I am going to take this plan all the way, I must get started. And by the way, yesterday it occurred to me that all I had to do was call the insurance company and switch the insurance back to my car. So, if you are in the Atlanta area and you see a white Mercury Tracer coming at you, get out of the way, it is not insured.

Meg

Rick is a selfish, lying cheat

There were many signs that my husband was cheating on me again but when he started brushing his teeth on a daily basis, I knew something was up. This bald man with no self esteem has never been able to tell a woman "No." Having seen some of his mistresses, I can't imagine what he would refuse. It is amazing how many women would want a man who would cheat on his wife. But if Elvis impersonators can get laid, I guess a bald man with a twisted penis can get lucky.

His penis is not only twisted, the head is smaller than the shaft. It looks kind of like a pencil with a worn out eraser. They say that baldness is caused by increased levels of testosterone so I guess that explains this man's voracious appetite for sex. I once found him masturbating to an adult movie on a channel that we didn't get. He was getting off to the slanted, half silent, half moaning reception of some sex channel.

Usually, I would find a man with such a sex drive appealing but I prefer quality over quantity. I once glanced at the alarm clock as I climbed into bed. It was 11:00. Rick then began to get "frisky". Foreplay, the act itself, the climax and the first snore all by 11:08. I swear on my children's life. I couldn't believe it. He had never taken so much time in his life. Now he is someone else's problem. I can't help but relish in the thought that one day, Rick will stop all this tooth-brushing and turn into his regular self for her. She will get to wonder how this man who used to brush his teeth can't seem to keep a pair of underwear free of skid marks for 12 hours. I have spoken to other men about this and it even grosses them out. When you gross out another man, you are...well...gross.

I wish I could say he will challenge her with his mind but up until I pointed out his mistake, he was calling Pensacola "Pepsi-Cola" and Philadelphia "Philadelthia". At first I thought he was a quiet, mysterious man. I slowly realized that he was just a moron who had nothing to say. Perhaps she thinks she has latched onto a man who will pay her bills. She may think he has a good job and compared to other men who date trailer dwelling bimbos, I bet he does. But, this is the exact same job, title and position he had when I met him 23 years ago. I don't see him becoming CEO anytime soon. He did start working out again for his mid-life crisis so I guess his body will be something.

Except of course, for the misshapen penis thing.