To Every Fuckwad Who Ever Left a "Bride at the Altar" (though the sexist nature of "bride" makes me sick, it's descriptive)

In response to the comment by my old friend Jessica to the Post "Dear people who wish you had a friend like mine" (i think I called it that but too irritated right now to go back and check):

You're so right on, Jessica dear, about the "fuckwad" status of certain men.  A woman who I won't name in case she cares (though I so much doubt it) called during the month I spent at my parents' drinking wine coolers, chain smoking and watching soaps in my mother's bed after the aforementioned fuckwad did his damage (which we now call "god's greatest favor"-I could've married him and chalked up 2 divorces instead of one).  Here was her pathetic tale, which topped mine (tho I certainly didn't care about that fact at the time):

This lovely and good human being's parents' own hotels and stores on Mackinaw Island (10 times smaller than even this iceberg) and they actually have a house there.  Obviously, they knew everyone on the fucking Island.  They had set up and financed this royal affair of a wedding where bride and groom would parade through town in carriage w/ hundreds of guests in their carriages traveling behind, to the Grand Hotel, where they'd be married in front of everyone who lived on the island and then a couple hundred others.  The night before-during the rehearsal dinner when he asked her to step outside (to proclaim his excitement at the prospect of their wonderful life together, she thought) and told her that he wasn't marrying her and actually just walked away into the night, leaving her at her own rehearsal dinner with scads of guest, her parents and siblings and the entire rest of her family inside.  You might think that was enough.  As it so happens, it was far from enough.

Mr. Fuckwad of that particular year (if not decade) married another woman-PREARRANGED CEREMONY-in front of the justice of the peace, she in a white wedding dress, the NEXT DAY.  Again, you might think that was enough.  As it so happens, it was not.

A week later, Mr. Fuckwad CALLED-ON PURPOSE NO LESS, the woman in question just to let her in on the happy news that the woman he had married instead of her was FIVE MONTHS pregnant-with his twins.  His reason for calling?  "Don't make any trouble for us."  Really?  "Is this a tv show or is this my real life?  Am I having a truly horrifying nightmare or is someone actually speaking these words to me?  Was I knocked unconscious?  Did I accidentally drop acid?"

How is it, in any definition of the Universe, permissible in any way, to think what he was doing was ok?

Oh, Mr. Fuckwad, fear mightily the awesome power of karma-and dharma, too.

And btw-when Jeff Russell did this and my da was downstairs waiting for us to come out, the dickhead was monotone and cold when he told me "the news."  Then we walked down the stairs, opened the door, and he immediately worked up croc tears and started walking towards my da, "sobbing."  I saw my da with his fists balled up and knew with certainty that he would be hitting Jeff Russell for the first time he'd hit anyone since high school and that he'd be ashamed after the fact.  Though I would have loved to have seen Jeff Russell get a knuckle sandwich, I physically grabbed hold of him and pushed him down the street over and over again until I could trust that he was far enough away that he wouldn't walk back to my da.  Best part?  He got so pissed at me for pushing him that he couldn't keep up the croc tears and looked like the cold coward fuckface that he truly was.

Boy.  Just when you think you could care less about something...bringing that whole picture to mind could make me barf up my own coffee and then try to find Jeff Russell, just so I could pummel him myself. 

Ok.  This deserves a joint post.  You and I can tell our stories and then every other one we heard after it happened to us.  You'll be my guest author.  You must have heard plenty of stories after it happened to make you feel "less alone"  ugh

To all the fuckwads out there, if any of us ever find a way to personally maim you, we will-or at least we'll scheme about it for fun...

Idiots.

Sincerely Your-worst nightmare if you're one of them-and I've got girlpower on my side

I think this may be the angriest and for certain the most vengeful letter I've written thus far, dear readers...hopefully, you will understand and remember that I usually have a kinder, gentler nature...usually.

Dear Women Who Undermine Women-

It's 2:30 in the  morning.  Short (c'mon it's me so read "relatively" here) and sweet (& we all know I'm not sweet-oh well-go for "good human being" cuz "sweet" doesn't really rate.  Muffy is sweet).  

Madeleine Albright said:  "There's a special place in hell for women who don't help other women."

I don't even believe in "hell" but that just sounds as right as rain.  These are the women who see you in your pajamas in the grocery store, a baby on your hip and a toddler in tow (kinda) and instead of saying, "you've got the best kids...you seem really happy and you can tell your kids just adore you.  How would you like to get together for coffee this Friday.  My daughter could watch your kids for a couple hours and we could just talk."...they say "oh, you poor thing.  You look so tired."  Really?  Has something happened that I don't know about that makes that an acceptable thing to say?

It's the same for women who tell horror stories about 72 hour labors or SIDS to a pregnant woman.  For shame.  Then there's that woman who sees your toddler with his binkie that YOU, his MOTHER, have decided it is ok for him to have-it's a comfort and he's not going to be sucking on it in college, even during nap time (yup...I'm a veteran of the binkie wars) and she proceeds to look at both you and your sweetie like you're putting him at the kind of risk you would be if you took him, say, whitewater rafting or mountain climbing.  And all the bull shit with nursery school-learning specialists and vocal development coaches-who are there to tell you how far your child is lagging behind.  Nursery school's concern with vocal development should be if a child screams "fire!" or "I'm bleeding!"  Nursery school should be about playing in the sandbox table (god I loved that) and doing crafts with your sweet, chubby little hand print and running around like a wild child and eating paste.

It must make these women feel better about themselves if they're willing to risk hell, but for the life of me, I just can't see how.  We pull each other up or we all go down.  Bitch is high praise when it's tossed at you as a response to your doing your job well or being an advocate.  It's another thing all together when women call you a bitch because you're so fucking mean to every other woman you know; you're the bitch who's made everyone in the neighborhood cry with what you pass off as camaraderie.  It's not.  It's.  Just.  Being.  The.   Worst.  Kind. Of.  Bitch.  Do you wanna find out if there's a special place in hell just for you?

Clare Boothe Luce said:

Because I am a woman, I must make unusual efforts to succeed. If I fail, no one will say, "She doesn't have what it takes." They will say, "Women don't have what it takes." 

Amen, Sistah.  Amen. 

And to my sistahs everywhere, those I've met and those I admire and those who's forced slavery drives me to tears, I am very literally and Sincerely Yours.

Seriously, now.  Even if you're like me and don't believe in hell, are you sure you want to find out if you're wrong?  Mull over that while you drink your $6.59 double decaf soy no foam latte and I'll enjoy my freshly brewed Spartan French Roast-even if it weren't $6.50 a can I'd still highly recommend it-and I'll wait to hear what you decide.