HA! Someone DOES want my advice! (and if YOU would like to Ask Miss Britt, email me, britt@miss-britt.com)

Anyway…

Hi,I am in need of some advice and maybe you could use this for your Monday thing.My ex-boyfriend with whom I have three kids with, has just been released from the county jail after serving six months for violating a restraining order which I placed on him about a year ago.

Hugs and Kisses

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OK, so, moving on…

…and more specifically, I am.  “How?” you may ask…

How Miss Britt Gets Over…Anything, Really

Step 1 - Immediately go out and buy Stuff:

Anything really, it doesn’t matter.  Sunday I spent about $400 between Menard’s and Wal-Mart.  Somewhere between the chandelier, sandpaper, tampons and the greatest fucking lipstick in the entire world… I found my shell beginning to crack.

Step 2 - Did I mention the greatest fucking lipstick in the entire world?

Yeah.  Really.  I have spent YEARS searching for lipstick that stays on past my first morning smoke.  I’ve tried all the fancy schmancy shit and nothing has worked.  Until now.  I even tried taking a picture of my lips last night when I realized that they were STILL beautimous - but, well, they may have been beautimous but apparently they aren’t photoblog-worthy beautimous.  So.  Anyway…
Step 3 - “Of course you can give me a foot massage”

Yeah, like any girl in her right mind is going to turn that down.  Plus, I mean, my shell had been cracked already and he was hanging my new chandelier, and I was already a little giddy about the whole glorious lips thing.  And it was the best damn pedicure I’ve ever gotten - free or otherwise.

Step 4 - A heartfelt “You’re my everything, baby”

*sigh* OK.  Hmm.  When you say it like that, all sincere and genuine and yet still somehow grown up and mature and not all creepy teenage boy… well, mmm, eh, what was I mad about again?

Step 5 - (fellas, plug your ears… or uh… close your eyes if you get all wierd about periods and whatnot)  Yeah.  It finally started.

Uh huh.  All that other shit aside, nothing takes away the angry haze like the END of PMS.

(Which reminds me, I need a kick ass word to describe it like Garbage Week.  I hate it when the good pseudonyms are fucking taken.)

Anyway… yeah… so… it is maybe a tiny bit possible that what would have usually inspired a ticked off “look” and a “you’re fucking kidding me, right? are you out of your damn mind?”… well, when fueled by the fires of hell that are PMS, umm… maybe could have lead to a more “intense” response.  I mean, I was still ticked and definitely earned the apology I received - but one retarded ass mistake does not change everything I know to be true about a man.  Well, unless you’ve got PMS.

So anyway, I’m good.  My chandelier is wonderful, my lips are luciously tinted, and my husband is probably wondering how in the hell he managed to find himself married to such an instable, mood swinging psycho - but right now he’s too scared to wonder aloud.

Ah… peace.

I’m so angry right now I could spit. Or cuss. Or throw something really freaking hard at my husband’s head.

Last night my husband went out to a bachelor party. I hate these things because it is inevitable that something stupid is going to happen in the name of… er, what exactly? Celebration? Singledom? Friendship? Manliness? More like straight fucking stupidity.

But of course, a good wife would never tell her husband that she didn’t want him to go to a bachelor party. A good wife would never dream of suggesting that she wasn’t gung-freaking-ho about him spending all night on Sniffer’s Row in a sleazy strip club. No, a good wife in today’s retarded ass society is apparently supposed to be supportive and understanding and encouraging of their husbands and other naked women.

I try to be a good wife. Really, I do. I try to be open and honest with my husband about what I’m thinking and feeling - even if I know that it’s irrational. I try to make compromises. I try to be understanding. I try to put aside my own insecurities, personal beliefs and ideas when necessary… especially in the name of - what again? Oh yes. Friendship.

Because - what kind of a friend would a man be if he had to tell another friend he couldn’t go to a strip club because of his bitchy ass wife? Right? Yeah, fucking right.

So, my husband told me that they were probably going to end up in a strip club. He asked me how I felt about it. I told him.

Specifically, I told him that - as he already knew - I was not at all comfortable with the idea. And not because I imagine him heading to a cheap motel with a stripper. But rather, because I think it’s fucking degrading as hell - to all women, and especially to his wife. And because I don’t think he’d be cool with me taking my shirt off and prancing around the office topless - which makes that retarded ass argument of “their just boobs” completely null and void. Because I don’t understand why “paying for it” from girls “it’s not like you know”… somehow makes it OK.

I told him how I felt - and I also told him that I wasn’t going to tell him he couldn’t go. That I was uncomfortable as hell with the idea - but that I knew that I couldn’t make a big deal out of him just being IN a strip club without somehow coming off as the bitch ass wife and depriving HIM of being there for his friend.

I also told him that although it wasn’t exactly his fault, I thought that it was fucking retarded that women are no longer allowed to have a problem with their husbands in strip clubs.

He was understanding and all “I know honey, it’s dumb, I don’t know why guys have to be like that and I’m sorry because I really do understand but don’t worry because I don’t think about it that way anyway”.

So anyways - he goes. He spends three hours at the fucking strip club.

And this morning, after much prodding and pushing and teeth pulling and strategic fucking questioning, I learn that he got a fucking Dollar Dance.

Yeah, I’m pissed.

He knew I was going to be pissed.

“Um, sorry” he says

Fuck your sorry. Sorry doesn’t take it back. Neither, by the way, does the fact that you “didn’t pay for it” - dumb ass. Yeah, like it’s the fucking DOLLAR I’m stressing about. Sorry doesn’t erase the fact that while I was home in our bed waiting for you to come home, you had your face in some other woman’s tits.

Sorry doesn’t make me feel less like crying. Sorry doesn’t make me feel less like throwing up. Or whooping the shit out of you if I was big enough and strong enough to actually do it.

Sorry doesn’t make me feel less violated. Or betrayed. Or hurt.

Or guilty for being so mad.

The thing is - this isn’t the first time we’ve had this talk. He’s always known how I feel about strippers. And whether he thinks it’s dumb or not… isn’t how I feel supposed to have some weight?

I hate the fact that I’m the bad guy here. It seems that most women are totally cool with the whole stripper idea - and if you’re not you’re either a super prude or a major bitch. Does anyone else see how fucking ironic that is???

Anyway, so I’m pissed. I’m seething. I’m slamming shit around and stomping and huffing and sighing as loudly as I can.

Anything to keep from breaking down bawling.

Because good wives don’t cry when their husbands go to strippers.

It has been said that I have a long list of rules of what one should and shouldn’t do. And I’ll have to admit, my Rule Book On Life would put Miss Post’s Book of Etiquette to shame with both it’s length and depth. I guess I’m rigid like that.