Why I Could Never Be a Golddigger

Note, this blogpost is not titled “why I don’t think it’s right to be a golddigger;” or “why I would never be a golddigger.” It’s Why I Could Never Be a Golddigger, which I’ll get to in just a minute.

Why I do think it’s right to be a golddigger, quite simply put is because golddiggers get shit done. Today we were at Target, picking up more canning supplies and body wash, and I saw what was clearly a golddigger with nice clothes, a Gucci purse, tons of diamonds, and a guy about three times her age with his hand on her ass.

Hand on her ass. The dude had to be 70.

While my husband was keeping his body wash separate from mine so that he didn’t accidentally get charged for it, this lady had a cart full of all the terribly useless crap Target has to offer. She had tons of expensive shampoos and hair products. She had – like – four kitchen appliances and a new suitcase. When we walked passed them, she was saying something about how “cute” some Target home decorative thing was and he said “anything for you, baby.”

Anything for you, baby. Words I have never heard.

Golddiggers get shit done. I’m sure there is a happy medium between being a golddigger and being a “give the milk for free” kind of gal. But not only do golddiggers get shit done, they make damn sure they get treated with the respect they deserve.

Why I would be a golddigger, were my husband and I to ever separate – quite simply put is because this cow ain’t giving out milk for free anymore. I have gone on way too many dates where the guy was cheap – something no woman should ever tolerate. My own husband has never actually taken me out on a real date. Our first time out he asked me for my half of the In ‘N’ Out order.

I’m not intending to talk badly about my husband or anything (actually … who taught him to treat women like that?); and there are plenty of things that make up for how cheap he can be. I’m just trying to illustrate just how much milk I have ended up giving out for free over the years. Maybe it’s California because before meeting my husband I dated a lot of guys out here that were very similar – cheap and expecting everything to come to them.

The point is that a golddigger demands the respect she deserves by virtue of her golddigging. Again, I’m sure there is a happy medium between nothing and everything. In the meantime, let’s hold fast to how much respect the golddigger commands.

Now to the point of this post altogether: Why I Could Never Be a Golddigger, quite simply put, is because I’m a slob. A pigslob. I’m an uncouth, unkempt, self-professed gutter whore.

#1 Every other word out of my mouth is a curse word. I mean every other fucking word. I don’t really swear around the Pookies, but every once in a while one slips. And then there was that one time (about an hour ago) that I announced “I think I pulled my left ass-cheek muscle vacuuming today.”

#2 I am terribly unkempt. Today was a particularly long and arduous day. I baked. I cooked. I made a delectable dinner that everyone bitched and complained about. I cleaned the bathrooms. I dusted. I did three loads of laundry. I vacuumed. And I scrubbed down the kitchen. Tonight I was sitting here working on my blog and eating some frozen yogurt to reward myself for all the work I did and I dropped a little bit on my shirt. No big deal, right? Just get a napkin and wipe it off, right? Well the napkins were too far away, and quite frankly I didn’t want to lose out on any speck of my fro yo, so I just licked it up. Licked it right up faithful blog followers, off my shirt. Then I went about my business.

#3 I say what I’m thinking irrespective of where I am or who I’m saying it to. I don’t act like a total jerk about it; and oftentimes I censor myself for a moment or two so as to not be rude. I also avoid conflict, but when I have something snarky or funny to say – I say it.

A great example of this was last night. We went out to dinner to what we thought was a restaurant/sports bar – but that had apparently remodeled since we were last there – to create this faux French bistro theme. Everything seems to be french-themed in our community these days – the fucking Eiffel tower is plastered everywhere, much to the disdain of those of us that actually have lived in or visited France, studied the French, or are Francophone. Nonetheless, it’s close to our apartment and the only other option it seemed was the Italian place next door that specializes in Barilla lasagna and fish tacos (I know … huh?).

When I looked through the menu, I immediately saw that the things they claimed to have added a “French twist” to were the exact same items as were available when it was a restaurant/sports bar. I didn’t know that the French serve BBQ Western hamburgers and turkey with mashed potatoes! The prices were a little higher as well; maybe that was the French twist. But all my old go-tos were the same: BBQ chicken salad, chicken sandwich with fontina cheese, and caprese thin-crust pizza, so I was happy to just go with the pizza. French you say?

So I had two classes of wine (not French, I might add) by the end of my not-French meal and was feeling a little lippy. It was loud and there were a lot of people there, so I didn’t think it would be a big deal if I leaned over to my husband and cracked a joke.

“Nick … this place is about as French as my asshole. You know what … I’m going to open a restaurant called ‘My French Asshole and Italian Hoo-Haa.’ Our main dishes will be hamburgers, donuts, and fish tacos.”

My husband immediately leaned a little closer to me, I could only assume to applaud my crass humor (that has never actually happened), and pointed out that the manager of the restaurant was standing right behind me to ask how our meal was.

So you see, faithful blog followers: I could never be a golddigger. It isn’t that I wouldn’t (because I would), or that I would have some sort of moral opposition to it (because I think in many cases it’s the only way to get shit done). Nope, I couldn’t be a golddigger because I’m a crass pigslob.

And on another note, we could also have an alternate title to this blogpost: Reasons That Birth Control Should Be Added To My Water Supply.

B(itch) Drop Your Overalls…

Does anyone remember that song from Insane Clown Posse? It’s called Redneck Hoe, but the best part of it is when they say “…bitch drop your overalls…” I will get to the relevance of it to this blog post in a moment, but I will never forget one of my ever-so-classy high school boyfriends playing that in an effort to actually get me to … well, drop my overalls. Needless to say, I did not drop them and broke up with him a few days later while he lay on the couch picking at his pimples. Fond memories, those high school days…

So anyway, back to topic: I’m feeling a bit loose this evening, and by ‘loose’ I mean drunk. I’ve had a head cold for four days or so (which will no doubt turn into another bullshit sinus thing) and finally today realized that the best cure would be to drink my way through it. Hot toddies and wine later, and I’m flying high. Thus, I feel like following up on my New Years Day 12 Confessions with some more itty-bitty secrets about me. I hope you are all entertained by my hidden gems.

PS I will probably delete this tomorrow when I am no longer snotty and inebriated.

PPS This is what I look like sick. Sexy, huh?

Confession 1: I want a pair of overalls so bad I can hear the sound of the snap as the straps click into place when I’m on my way to wherever the fuck I’d go wearing overalls. I have no idea why. Would I actually wear them? Not unless I was planning on going to a ho down or squirrel hunting. Or off-roading. Or maybe to the Wal-Mart KFC.

Confession 2:  I take on ridiculous projects around the house to preoccupy myself from the fact that my daily life is lonely, boring, and seems to lack purpose. My current project is knitting a scarf or hat for all 10 of the family members I will be seeing next month on our trip home to Chicago. It actually is a really nice thing for me to do, and were I not trying to occupy myself all those hours my husband works overtime I would still probably do it. But it also was completely idiotic for me to decide on such a project only four weeks out on vacation. That’s 3.3 scarves per week – way too many.

Confession 3: I’m a total hypochondriac. I can never watch movies like Contagion or Outbreak because I start freaking out about what could happen in real life. And I worry about the stupidest things. After I found my first gray hair a few months ago I obsessed about whether all my hair was going gray and/or thinning and/or falling out. Such a stupid thing to worry about.

Confession 4: I used to work in politics. Have I mentioned this to you all before, faithful blog followers? Whether I have or not, I suppose I should be clear: I didn’t work in government, I worked in politics. I worked on campaigns and then for the non-profit wing overseen by the AFL-CIO. After there, I worked for a political action committee and was ruined as a human being. What I mean is that the few months I was there are what made me the jaded, cynical bitch that I am today. I will sum it up in this: don’t trust people in politics, even your friends. Especially your friends. Also, as a former community organizer it makes me go bonkers to join community groups only to see them so poorly and inefficiently run.

Confession 5: When I can’t sleep in the middle of the night, I watch cartoons. Usually it’s because I think the cartoons will bore me enough to lull me to sleep. But they never do – Dexter, Cow and Chicken, the Power Puff Girls, and the Simpsons just never get old to me.

Confession 6: I detest cliches. Among those are cliches that are spoken, like “early bird gets the worm,” and “home is where the heart is.” I also feel like vomiting every time someone says “you know they say…” On the note of photographs, I also detest some photographic cliches, like that photo of the new dad sleeping with his newborn baby on his chest. There are also a host of cliched things to do that drive me bonkers, like going to Home Depot on the weekend.

Confession 7: When I am sick (like I am now), I snore. Before this time it was only “apparently” in the sense that people just told me I snore when I am sick, but I never actually experienced it so trusted their judgment. This morning, though, I was snoring so violently that it woke me up. Yep, that’s right … one of those startled-from-snoring-wake-ups began my day. Hot, I know.

Confession 8: I am the worst Catholic ever. This blog is the closest thing that I have come to going to ‘confession’ in years. I actually haven’t gone to mass regularly since they started really pushing the abortion act during the homilies, which annoyed me beyond belief (no pun or cliche intended). After having basically a second wedding for our con validation of marriage in the Catholic church a little over a year ago, my husband later announced that he no longer even knew if he believed in any of it so we basically are now hedonistic sinners. We don’t go to church. We don’t abstain from anything during lent. We eat meat on Fridays. If there is a hell, we’ll probably be there. The one thing I miss about going to mass and being very involved in the Catholic community was the sense of belonging and having some connection to the outside world. Now Sundays are just another day, very similar to the rest of the week – often, it is spent alone at home.

Confession 9: I did not take such issue with rednecks until I moved to California. At first I thought this was because I had become a snobby Californian that thinks she’s better than everyone else. But this actually isn’t the case – I don’t think I’m better than anyone, especially since moving here to the land of boob jobs and botox. No, the truth is actually that California is loaded with rednecks left over from the mass migration of southerners traveling west during the Great Depression to find work. Every time someone tells me that I am crazy on this, I respond simply “have you people never read The Grapes of Wrath?” A very small portion of Los Angeles is about all the glitz and glam you’ll get in California – the rest is just trailer trash and trailer trash disguised with a lot of money and botox injections.

Confession 10: I have terrible OCD. Such terrible OCD that the only reason I am admitting to a tenth confession is so that the number of confessions I am including in this blog post are capped off on an even number. I know, psychotic.

Those are my confessions and hopefully tomorrow morning I don’t regret having posted them. They probably seemed a little anticlimactic – no orgies and one night stands with high-powered people reported. We’ll have to save those for when I’m really blitzed, I suppose…