The other day my kids asked me why I'm always so angry. I didn't know how to respond. I'm angry that they think their dad is "wonderful" because he plays with them all day (he's not working), takes them to get fast food (instead of cooking something healthy), and because he's their coach (he is having an emotional affair with one of the parents).
I assign chores to the kids because things never get done when I ask my husband to do them. If I remind them "It's trash day" or "Don't forget to vacuum the living room," my husband steps in and says, "I'll do it for you, Billy/Jane," which makes me the bad guy. I know if I ask for a divorce, the kids will want to live with him.
How do I explain this to them? And what do I tell my friends when they ask what a pretty, fit, successful woman like me is doing with an overweight, unemployed, lazy man like him? He's more personable than I am, but the stress of being the sole breadwinner has taken its toll on me. -- NEEDING ANSWERS, LEVITTOWN, PA.
DEAR NEEDING ANSWERS:
God, you sound like a real dinobitch.
You say you need answers, but I'm not sure I know what the questions are. Is the question, "Why are you such a dinobitch?" I know you want the answer to be, "Because of your husband, girlfriend," but this isn't Oprah, and I'm willing to bet that you were a dinobitch before you met this personable schlubucket.
The thing about dinobitches is, they should be extinct. Have you given any thought to suicide? Maybe you could crucify yourself on the front lawn, since you're the household martyr.
Make sure to have your kids rake the leaves and trim the hedges first.
You really like to blame your husband for your miseries, but the fact is that you married him, I doubt this was an arranged marriage. So, really, you're to blame, not him. I realize that blaming your husband for your unhappiness is just a logical extension of blaming your parents for your unhappiness, which is what, I'm sure, you used to do prior to shacking up with Dale here. That's his name, isn't it? I just got a feeling is all.
And, by the way, you can tell all your inquisitive, pandering friends that you're a "pretty, fit, successful woman married to an overweight, unemployed, lazy man" because that's what the media dictated you should be paired with. Look at Marge Simpson, Lois Griffin, Francine Smith, the skinny bitch who's married to that asshole on "The King of Queens" and all those other fucking awful TV shows where the tight slut with perky tits is married to the miserable fat lump on the couch. Don't doubt media saturation, honey-- don't doubt it for a second.
Oh, and, by the way, did I mention it's trash day?
I am 14 and have just started high school. I have been told I'm beautiful. Most times I feel that way, except for one thing -- I hate my nose! I don't want to sound ungrateful for my looks. I know I'm not the only girl who has a flaw and wants to change it. I just want your opinion.
From the front you can't tell my nose is messed up. But viewed from the side, there's a bump in the middle. It's also sort of crooked and just too big. I'm starting to be self-conscious about it. I don't like people looking at me from the side, but it's hard to prevent.
I have been researching plastic surgery online. At my age, my parents won't let me get a nose job, but I don't want to wait until I'm 18. Some kids have commented about my nose, but mainly I want to do this for me. It would make me feel better about myself. What am I supposed to do? -- SELF-CONSCIOUS IN MINNESOTA
DEAR BIG NOSE:
Honey, I understand where you're coming from. It's not easy being Jewish in Minnesota. Believe me, my wife lived there for a few years, and it wasn't pretty. You'd think that in a place that houses the Mayo Clinic and is saturated with doctors that there'd be plenty of Jews there, but, really, they're all tall, blonde, beautiful people whose children are, frustatingly, above average. And, while I'm sure you get straight A's and give your math tutor handjobs for PSAT tips like every other 14-year-old in Minnesota, I can tell that your schnozz is above average, and not in the good way.
Want my advice? Get that fucking ski-slope shimmed down. If your stingy, mean, Jew parents won't foot the bill for plastic surgery before your eighteenth birthday, which is just unconscionable (it should have been your Bat Mitzvah gift, sweetiepie), you're just going to have to do it at home yourself. You will need the following:
1 disposable picnic knife, preferably polystyrene but take what you can get
1 bottle of rubbing alcohol (this will serve as sterilization prep & anesthesia.
1 set of your parent's finest bedsheets. This will show them what the fuck is up.
2 lobster forks
1 nutcracker (preferably the festive ones dressed up like soldiers with the beards
1 box of Can-Do's
3 rolls of Owens-Corning fiberglass insulation (to muffle screams)
Good luck, dear! Send pics when you're all done and beautiful.
I am a 22-year-old woman, fairly mature, intelligent and stable. I'm 5-foot-3 and wear a size 5 or 6.
I have this friend, "Tish," who is stunningly gorgeous. She looks like a model, stands about 5-foot-8 and wears a size 1 or 2. She dresses stylishly and has the figure to pull off many outfits that I never could. Tish is also a nice person who has never said anything to put me down. I feel no ill will toward her, just inferior when I'm around her.
I have had super-short hair most of my life, but have been growing it out for the past year to "reinvent" myself. When I saw Tish last week, she had donated her shoulder-length hair to Locks of Love and now sports an ultra-chic haircut that makes her look better than I ever did. I cried for almost an hour after she left.
I know my feelings are stupid and childish. Not only do I feel ugly externally next to Tish, but also internally ugly for being so hung-up on appearance when she hasn't done me any wrong. How can I get rid of these unwanted feelings? -- PALE IN COMPARISON
Oh, Jesus Christ. What is with you people today?
Here's the deal: you can either give yourself surgery in the basement, or there's a cross on the front lawn with your name on it.
Take your pick, love.