Love American Style

I stumbled onto a disturbing how-to site when I was blog-surfing. The title was too intriguing, and like a a raccoon drawn to a shiny button, I clicked on the link to come face to face with a problem I never really knew I had.



If this site is to be believed, American men hate their marriages to American women.



Yep, you read that correctly. Among other things, this site outlines in great detail all of the ways that American women have devolved into bitter, controlling, spiteful, fat, lazy, manipulative bitches who feel entitled to "the good life" at the expense of their husband's health, happiness and well-being.

A few gems from this site:



The current American/American divorce rate is around 60%. The majority of remaining married men are stuck in sexless marriages with nagging and bitching wives, but they choose not to divorce because they are afraid of being wiped out financially during divorce.



An American woman has several fundamental problems. Her inherent anti-male bias and pre-occupation with fairness was drilled into her in high school. Her self-centeredness, her ridiculously high expectations, her sense of entitlement, her high-maintenance, superficial, and stuck up attitude, her snootiness and her sense of superiority. This "princess" syndrome means that she will always think that she is better than you, and that she deserves and is entitled to whatever she wants from you. She has general mental instability and psychological disorders. She uses sex as a weapon and reward to get things.



American women have been born and raised in the corrosive negative world of feminism. They can't help but think like a feminist and view the world like a feminist.



Now you understand why US men prefer foreign born women: THEY TREAT US BETTER, RESPECT US, APPRECIATE THAT AFFECTION WE SHOW THEM, AND ACKNOWLEDGE OUR EFFORTS TO PROVIDE A BETTER LIFE.



American women huff and puff, and scowl at the incoming foreign brides who don't demand the feminazi equality bullshit.

You know, I realize that this site is biased, and more than likely written by an embittered ex-husband, but as much as I hate to say it, there is some validity to the site. I think that is what bothers me the most.



Do my women friends have a sense of entitlement? Yep.



Are all of my women friends on Prozac? Yep.



Does every couple I know have power struggles about money and chores? Yep.



Do the women I know push for the big house and the new SUV? Yep.



Are most of my friends divorced AT LEAST once? Yep.



Do I know men living in poverty after divorce court? Yep.



I hate to draw comparisons, but I am continually drawing the comparison of American men seeking foreign wives to American corporations seeking foreign labor. Is that all marriage is: a division of physical labor and a promise of fidelity? Is it that simple? Have we American women fucked it up so badly with our demands for equality and our sense of entitlement?



When the hell did this happen? When did men and women choose opposing sides and begin this war? Maybe it was when the economy began to necessitate that women work to support the household.



Maybe it was when American men began to lose ground in Corporate America. When college-educated American women started climbing ladders and kicking the men off on the way up.



Women my age were raised watching Mary Tyler Moore, One Day At A Time and Alice, where single, divorced and widowed women were making it on their own.



I watched my mother work full time. I was a daycare kid. I never had any ambitions to be a stay-at-home mom and I always intended to have a career. I have to admit that the craft of homemaking is not my priority, but I would dearly love to have the warmth of a well-tended, perfectly decorated home full of homemade bread and handmade quilts. That explains the cult-like fascination with Martha Stewart Omnimedia - she presents the ideal professional woman who has nurtured her home. Of course, her husband ran off with her secretary, and her daughter is estranged. Hmm.



American women ARE bitter. We are bitter because we were sold a bill of goods about how much better it was to have a career and put the babies into daycare than it was to stay home, rock the baby and cook and clean. We ARE pissed off because we are working as hard as men are, and we are still mothers and we are still doing the housework, and damn it, we went to college, earned the grades, were promised equality, and when we got a taste of it, we didn't like it as much as we were promised that we would. Something suffers - home or career. I don't personally know a woman yet that has been able to do justice to both.



I can see why men would be tempted to take a foreign bride. They get to be a savior, Prince Charming, and The Man Of The House all rolled up into one. Is it fair to say that women that come here from an impoverished country are eager to marry and cook, clean and tend children with a smile on their face? You bet your ass they are.



If you can't tell, I am pretty discouraged this morning.

House arrest

I haven't said much about my work. I am a technical writer.



It has taken me many years to utter that sentence without preamble and backpedaling. I used to say, "I write for a living, but nothing that you would be interested in reading," or "I write things that no one ever sees," or "I make my living writing boring documents."



The truth is, I make my living crafting documents that span the space between those that have technical knowledge and those that don't. I am damn good at it, too. Good enough to say that I have been able to support myself with my writing for better than 15 years now.



I think that I repeatedly undercut the career for so long because technical writing was never my ambition. I always wanted to be a fiction writer. It just so happens that technical writing is a much steadier gig. It is very lucrative if you are on your game, so I have used my abilities in the way that has been the most financially beneficial, but not necessarily the most personally fulfilling.



Over time, I have structured my career so that I work at home in my own office, which is a priceless perk, in my opinion. The only way that I have been able to continue this is by working short-term freelance assignments.



My current assignment started back in April, and it is scheduled to run through August. This client was initially very wary of working with me remotely, and insisted on putting several safeguards in place to ensure that they had constant availability to me. I have access to their private network, and I am required to be signed on to their private chat system so that the client can verify that I am indeed signed on and present for the hours specified in the contract.



It was kind of funny; the first few weeks were just test after test after test. Instant messages were sent at 8:29 am and 5:31 pm on an almost daily basis. I took this as a personal challenge and so far I have been able to volley back every single serve they have zinged over the "net" at me. Of course, that means that I really can't stray more than about 10 feet from my working area at any time . . . and that is kind of nervewracking.



I have won their trust at this point, and they are quite happy with the documents that I have written on their behalf. I figured that would happen just about the time the contract wrapped.



All work has its perks and downsides, I guess. One downside is that I spend hours upon hours with only myself for company (well, and Weenie, when she isn't busy shredding the kid's socks or pissing on my rug). This blog has provided an outlet for me and access to a whole community of funny, caring people. That makes house arrest a little more bearable, so to my blog friends that regularly visit me and leave their impressions, thank you. Work is much less lonely this way.

Relief at last

I wage a battle every day against a formidable opponent. Back pain.



I don't recall having any kind of chronic physical pain through my 20s. The year I turned 30, I had a cesearean section, and that is where things began to go downhill. My back was just really never the same after the epidural. Now, getting the epidural was HEAVEN . . . it was instant relief from pain and pressure and I would have killed for it at the time. I think the combination of the surgery severing my abdominal muscles and the injection created a tag-team of pain, and so it has been since about 1995.



Fast forward to 2001. Another baby, and another cesearean section. This time, I was delivered of a strapping 10 lb. baby boy. Again, the epidural provided blessed momentary relief, and the huge incision severed my lower abdomen, and I really have never recovered.



It is strange to live with chronic pain. I have really grown used to waking up in pain, going through my day aching, and retiring into bed feeling shooting pain in my lower back. The few times I have attempted to exercise my abdominals, I was very, very sorry for it . . . the pain was MUCH worse.



I have used Tylenol, Aleve, aspirin, heat packs, ice packs, pillows between my knees, analgesic rubs, and all have offered very temporary relief, but sooner rather than later, that nagging pain begins to creep back into my consciousness.



It has been a hindrance . . . its hard to go on long walks, pick up the kids, carry groceries, and do the normal things that people do every day. I still do these things, but the pain has worn me down. At times, it is really hard to convince myself to get up out of bed and get moving, and some days, it is impossible. I frequently find myself laying down on the sofa in the middle of the day - reclining is pain-free, and I do it more often than I wish I had to.



OH, but last night, I think I may have discovered a TRUE reprieve from the pain. I swam in the pool. Not just floated and paddled, but I swam laps, using a styrofoam noodle, and just took it at a leisurely pace. Back and forth, I kicked and made my way up and down the pool lane 4 times. I noticed that as I swam, some of the stiffness seemed to lessen.



After the 4th lap, I was fairly winded, and I just kind of relaxed with the noodle up under my arms, and I just . . . floated. My legs were just hanging, not touching the bottom, and I was completely . . . pain . . . free. No drugs, no creams, no painful exercises. Just blissful, peaceful, painless floating. I nearly cried with relief.



I slept very well, and only woke up once to readjust my pillows under my knees, and this morning, I was still pain free. As the afternoon has worn on, I have felt a twinge in my back a time or two, but I chalk that up to sitting in this damn chair working at my computer.



I am hoping and praying that I can continue this little regimen and rid myself of this pain. Maybe I'll be able to get back on my treadmill, and regain my strength and flexibility. That would be such a pleasure.

High Maintenance - White Trash Style

As I type this, I am gazing contentendly down at my freshly painted toesies. Another nice gift that I received for my birthday - a gift certificate to the nail salon that happens to be inside the local Super Walmart.



Now, I have never really considered myself high maintenance, but you know, I think I am going to recant that. As I get older, I have begun to indulge in a few regularly scheduled maintenance services, but at rock-bottom prices. I am low-class high maintenance (if that catches on, you heard it here first).



For example - I do like to have my hair washed and trimmed in a salon on a fairly regular basis, but I generally go to Great Clips for $14.99. I am somewhat vain about the auburn in my hair, so I indulge in a color wash, but I do that at home in the shower with a $4.00 box of color from the CVS.



Going back to the pedicure - I dearly love to have a spa pedicure. Massage, full pedicure, heaven. I am completely content to sit in the the nail salon in front of the Walmart checkout lanes in a vibrating chair while a nice little person expertly lotions my heels and paints my nails for $20.00. I get my brows waxed there, too ($6.00).



My point is this . . . the other women that I know, the ones that I work with and live around keep the high-priced salons in business. They have a dedicated stylist, and colorist, and manicurist, and they buy very expensive clothing, shoes, etc.



Now, maybe I just don't have a keen enough eye, but I can't tell much difference between my haircuts and theirs, or my nails or theirs, or my clothes or theirs.



Maybe I am missing some part of the whole experience by going on the cheap. But to tell the truth, I think the frugality of it lessens the guilt for me. I have finally come to the point that I feel sure that I am worth taking care of, but within reason. I am not sure I could sit still for a $135 haircut and a $75 color. I think I would choke if I attempted to purchase a $35 bottle of shampoo.



I want to look like a million bucks, as long as it doesn't routinely cost me more than $19.95.

Who in the hell made this mess?!?!

Mistake number one: I gave in to the "I'm bored!" chant this past weekend and took my daughter on a litte outing to the craft store. Big mistake. JoAnne's was having a 70% off kid's craft kits sale, and I went a little crazy. Foam shapes, visors, clay, hole punchers, glue, pipe cleaners, sparklies, and we were set for a Summer O' Fun!



Two hours later, and my kitchen looked like Rip Taylor had skipped through and thrown up.


There was glitter on the floor, on the chairs, the table, the countertops, all in the baby's hair (much to his delight); even the dog sparkled!



I walked into the delighted screaming melee, and when I saw the devastation, all noise ceased. Could have heard a pin drop. The glitter tube in the baby's hand stopped sprinkling in mid-air. Even Weenie became still as a statue, up on her hind legs. All were waiting for the verdict. I could hear my own heart beating.



I cracked a smile and shrugged my shoulders. Fuck it. The kids screamed with delight and sprinkled glitter on me, too. After all, it is my birthday.



Happy birthday to me.