It’s been a good long while since I’ve ranted, and it’s important to remind you every now and again that THIS IS NOT A NICE LADY BLOG, lest you begin to think I’m some simple-headed basic Pollyanna bitch.
This one’s been a long time comin, so for your own safety, I ask that you sit down, strap in, and put yer helmets on.
Get ya drink. I’ll wait.
Bitches love my man.
Proverbial bitches who proverbially suck his dick all the goddamn time.
They lurve him.
Nowhere is this more apparent than on social media.
The Mister is the most beloved man that ever graced social media.
No one likes me, least of all my family and friends, and everyone loves him to the nth degree.
That’s how I feel, and it doesn’t matter what you think, it only matters how I feel, cause INFJ.
Now, before I go on, I want you to know that these could all well be fictional events, or completely hyperbolic examples
but they’re totally not.
If any of these stories involve you, I probably still love you, but there’s no hope I’ll ever forget being slighted by you and I guess we’ll both have to live with that: you, glowing in your triumph and me crying and drinking stale champagne, but we’ll manage.
Also, I’m flattered you’re reading my blog. I had no idea you read my blog!
I know the sun rises and sets upon The Mister and how I know that nobody likes me, everybody hates me, and I should just eat some worms.
1. I am invisible next to my husband.
Me: It’s crazy hot in here.
The Mister: It sure is crazy hot in here.
All the women: Yes, you’re right! It sure is crazy hot in here!
Julie: I played violin.
Jenny: I didn’t play anything, I sang though.
Julie: The Mister sang, too.
Me: I also sang.
for five years longer than he did, but whatever, Julie, you’ve only known me 20+ years
Stranger: Do you know where the paint is?
Me: Aisle 4
Stranger to The Mister: Thanks. Have a nice night, Man.
The Mister: You too.
2. If I vaguebook, it is assumed that I am speaking of my husband and only the bravest and strongest will acknowledge it.
Me: Narcissists are dreadful.
Tracey: Aren’t they though?
Cole: I had a stalkery Narcissist for years and years.
Me: I think this is one of those statuses that people think I’m talkin about my husband or somethin. No one’s sayin anythin…
Then BOOM! Lotsa comments.
Like, ‘Oh, it’s not about The Mister, so it’s safe now.’
Do other people think my husband is a Narcissist?
3. He’s the pretty one.
If I post a selfie, I get maybe 30-40 Likes. If I post a picture of The Mister, or both of us together, I get 60-80.
4. He’s the funny one.
Me: And then she fell on her face!
The Mister: Just splat on her face!
Everyone: OH LOL LOL ROTFL OH LOL LOL PMSL OH HAHAHA LMMFAO You are so funny!
5. He’s the smart one.
The Mister cuts the child’s pancakes with a pizza cutter.
“What a brilliant idea!”
“Right? Joey taught me this years ago.”
“You’re so smart!”
5. I give people things and people thank The Mister.
“This is wonderful, thank you so much!” she says as she pats his hand.
“Joey thought you’d like it.”
I’m right here. Hello? Am I in a nightmare?
I don’t care who you are, not once in the last sixteen years has The Mister ever so much as thoughtfully purchased a greeting card for you, let alone a fucking gift.
6. People let him sleep.
Children never wake him in the night due to bad dreams, worry, vomiting, wet bed.
If he falls asleep AT A SOCIAL GATHERING people say, “Aw, he’s so tired.”
Yes. He’s worked so hard. At falling asleep 4 hours before me, waking 30 minutes before me and having napped earlier this afternoon when I was cooking all this fucking food.
7. His feelings matter.
The Mister: I’m a little bit anxious right now.
Everyone: Why? What’s wrong? What happened?
The Mister: It is what it is, there’s no reason.
Everyone: You poor thing. Can I make you some tea? Would a backrub help? Is there anything I can do? Here, lie down.
Me: I’m havin a panic attack.
8. His blasphemy sounds better and his swearing is overlooked.
If I shout, “Oh my God!” when a yellow jacket lands on my nose, I am asked if I am invoking God reverently. So unladylike, so ungodly, so unbecoming.
If The Mister says, “Oh Lord no, dear sweet baby Jesus, hell no!” then he is funny and this is the best story they have ever heard.
If I say it’s fucking hot, people think I am being dramatic and crude.
If he says it’s fucking hot, people stay indoors and thank him for the warning.
9. The children ask for him when they’re sick or injured.
Me when they’re sick — back-rubbing, cool-rag fetching, bucket-emptying, hair-holding, drink-soup-toast toting.
Him when they’re sick — “Suck it up, Buttercup! Drink water, drive on!”
Me when they’re injured — Holding them, asking them, “Can you move it? Do you feel a bump? Do you think you need medical assistance?”
Him when they’re injured — Moving potential broken bits, making them scream and cry, yelling at them, dousing their wounds with alcohol.
He has the worst bedside manner, but they want him still.
So far, I’ve protected the names of the guilty offenders and I’ve not given you substantial proof, but I submit to you, my Instagram.
The Mister isn’t on Instagram.
But on his birthday, the daily prompt was ‘My hero,’ and as such, I posted his photo.
Check it out. People actually wished him a happy birthday on my post. Did those same people wish me a happy birthday on Instagram? Nope. Like I’m runnin a fuckin fan page for The Mister.
Do you need more proof?
I tell ya, he should run for office. Bitches would be swoonin over his likable ass, chasin him down, vyin for his attention, “I saw you on Instagram! I love what you’ve done with your hair!”
He’s bald, Bitch. God did that.
And all those political opinions? They’re mine. I gave him those, along with a host of other things, not the least of which are his love of duck confit and a better vocabulary.
You could conclude that I’m jealous, and I am; I’ve never been likable. In the words of my dear friend Orb, “You’re likable..just only to the right people. Just like me.” Takes one to know one, I guess.
But in turn, you must know, The Mister chooses me every day. He doesn’t know I’m not the pretty one, the funny one, or the smart one. He sees me at my best and my worst, and he really sees me. He values my judgment, my intellect, my insight. He listens to me when I prattle on and he comforts me when I’m panicked. He fosters my growth, finances my passions, and he is man enough to thrive in the challenges of my bitchiness. He makes me forget how awkward and irrelevant I am.
I can see why people love him so much. Everyone should have one.
I appreciate your reading all the way to the end, because I jotted the fuck out of this Just Jot It January post.