Once Upon a Time

I found this on Pinterest.  I know, it’s hard to read but it says, “Once upon a time a prince asked a beautiful princess Will you marry me? And the princess said NO and the prince lived happily ever after and rode motorcycles and fucked with cute skinny girls and hunted and raced cars and went to naked bars and dated women half his age and drank beer and jack Daniel’s and captain Morgan and drank the milk from the box and never heard bitching and went to rock concerts and kept his apartment and his favorite jeans and never got cheated on while working and all his family and friends thought he was fucking cool as hell and had tons of money and left & left the toilet seat up The End.

Yay for women bashing.

But my question is, if all of the those things were important and he was absolutely convinced his life with her would mean giving up the rock concerts and the drinking and his friends and hunting and racing and money and his favorite jeans and his Cool… then why did he ask her to marry him in the first place?

So, my fairy tale (because me all know my track record in the love and romance department) would be something like this.

A prince and princess had been dating for a while, when they started talking about marriage.  It seemed like a good fit. He liked motorcycles and fast cars and she thought if he wants to get himself killed I’ll get the life insurance money.  Especially if he’s going to be driving either after drinking his beer or Jack Daniel’s. The Captain Morgan was all hers. And also margaritas.  Because she never bitched about his motorcycles and fast cars or his drinking he was extra careful because he knew he’d never find another woman like her. There would be no need for him to go to naked bars or chase other women because they had a rocking sex life at home (from all the tequila in the margaritas).  She had no problem with the rock concerts and would even join him, because as it turns out they liked the same kind of music and most of the same bands. He insisted he keep his apartment, and she said that was fine, she would keep hers too. It was then they decided they could find an apartment together because he didn’t see the need for her to keep her apartment once they were married.  As for his favorite jeans, he could keep them, after all that was really such a minor thing to argue over. He agreed she could keep her mini skirts because they were HAWT, even though he didn’t like it when she wore them out to the bars with her friends. He trusted her.  His friends thought she was cool because on Sundays she would let them all come over and watch the game, and provide the beer and really awesome snacks and while they were watching the game she would be in another room watching a movie she had been dying to see but knew he wouldn’t ever want to watch.  If they were watching the race, she would join them because she loved racing as much as he did even if she did hate his favorite driver.  His family thought she was awesome because they knew she would never try to change their son because she knew who he was before she agreed to marry him and there was no point in trying to change someone just because they were now married.  After all if you’re going to marry someone it’s better to marry someone you know and have things in common with, instead of marrying a stranger. Her family loved and adored him because they knew that he would provide for her, and he loved her and he didn’t control her and he trusted her and she would never betray that trust. He still had lots and lots of money because she had her own job, but since they were combining their lives why not combine their finances too? It only made sense.  And that toilet seat issue? She figured it was easier and less energy to just shut up and put the seat down and go on because there were bigger things to worry about.  Like who his favorite driver was. Then end.

Shut up. Did you miss the part where this was a fairy tale??

Alcohol: the reason for this post. I'm sorry.

It’s Friday.  I’m on my 2nd rum  and coke.  Captain Morgan is erasing all evidence of douchebaggery of my ex husband from my memory. No that’s not true. I will never ever forget what a total douchebag he has been today.  But Captain Morgan at least helps me understand I can’t do a damn thing about it today, so I might as well enjoy my weekend.

I know that I haven’t blogged at all since dropping the whole I-have-spent-every-other-weekend-in-jail-since-April bomb on the internet.  Thank you all for your kind words regarding that matter.  It’s just another step in the I-have-to-grow-the-fuck-up process.  Seriously?  Your kind words meant a lot to me.

But, yes, I have not blogged a damn thing all week.  It’s not that I don’t have a whole whirlpool of blog posts swirling around in my head, because I do.  But this week the only time I’ve been able to find to get them out of my head and onto the blog has been at around 2:30AM and I’m sort of busy sleeping then.  SO, here we are at the weekend.  And I find that I’ve got a few hours maybe I can sort out the jumbled mess in my head and actually have some coherent thoughts to blog about here.

Tonight, I’m going to get my drink on.  Tonight I’m going to forget what a total fucking douchewad waste of DNA I married the first time around.  Tonight I’m going to have a good time.  Tomorrow?  Tomorrow is reserved for thought provoking, mind using, fun having, awesome blogging.

G’Nite….

Oh, and can I just say, My step-son-to-be is the awesomeness with a side of awesome sauce.  Just saying.

I blame myself, because I can’t find anyone else to blame, damnit

Whew!  What a day.  Days like this were made for Xanax.

This week was a larger than normal pay check for me, and after listening to the girls whine every. single. morning about having ‘nothing to wear’, I decided it was time to take them out to get some jeans.  After all, it seems that the 90+ degree days are a thing of the past (knock on wood) and it’s time to get them some jeans.

And teach them a lesson in responsibility.

Brian’s mom has been paying them all summer for doing chores around her house.  They need to pull their weight, and they can earn money to pay for some of their school clothes.

We gave them each $20 and told them, “When it’s gone, it’s gone.”  And off we went.

Being the smart adults we are, Mimi and I took them to consignment shops in the area.  The clothes there are as good as new (or almost) and are already broke in, and have been washed and have shrunk as much as they are going to shrink.  All good.

We hadn’t even gotten out of the driveway when…

It was going to be one of *those* days.  You know, a Captain Morgan kind of day.

The first store?  Nothing there that would interest a 42 year old single mom, let alone two teenage divas in training.

The 2nd store?  They found shoes and purses and more shoes and it looked like a Hookers ‘R’ Us outlet.  I was not about to let them buy anything at that store.

They say the third time is a charm.  Store number three.  6000 square feet of nothing but rejected clothes, dishes, shoes, coats, toys, games, jewelry, purses, you name it, I’m sure we could have found it.

Except jeans the girls would actually consider putting on their damn butts.

I know I pulled two dozen pairs of jeans off the racks to show them.  Every. Single. Pair had something wrong with them.  “They’re too dark”.  “I don’t like the pockets”, “They’re skinny jeans”,  “They look too big”  “They look too small”,  “I just don’t like the way they look”.

Finally, I told them, if you can’t find a pair of jeans, you can just go to school naked.  I don’t want to hear any more whining and crying and arguing about how you have ‘nothing to wear’.

Apparently, those are the magic words to make every pair of jeans in the store magically delicious and dressing room worthy.

I know, I know, I know, I should be damn proud of them for being “just like me”, or at least, just like I wanted to be at that age, but couldn’t, because my mom and dad couldn’t afford the wardrobe I wanted to wear and nobody had even heard of consignment shops, and really?  I doubt I would have worn second hand clothes at that age, but maybe I would have because I remember I used to love to find the trashiest, sluttiest shoes at yard sales and buy them.  I thought they were cool.  My parents? Not so much.

I also know I have nobody to blame for their behavior but myself.  I have created these little divas in training.  Now I just have to find a way to live with them.

Somebody pass me the Captain Morgan.