Mary Margaret Unrestrained

Steel magnolia who says, “When I see stupid; I say stupid.

Don’t Cry When Things Go Wrong-Do What Men Do-Head For the Nearest Bar

 Southern women were taught that crying is therapeutic; sit down and have a good cry. Get it out of your system when things go wrong.

Mary Margaret

Mary Margaret

Crying was the only option women had before Xanax therapy they could drink in public.
Duped into believing a little cold water splashed on their face concealed the ravages of a crying jag. No one mentioned the afterglow of the ugly cry; a big red nose and bloodshot eyes.

After much deliberation, I decided I’d as soon someone see me rip-roaring drunk rather than bawling like some misbegotten female in a bad soap opera. Crying is a sign of weakness and women have evolved beyond sniveling and whining.

Crying is what men expect us to do when we get upset.

No one would dream of telling a man to have a good cry and everything would be fine. Do what they do and head for the nearest bar when things go wrong.
You are going to look as awful from drinking as you would crying so you may as well drown your sorrows in an adult beverage.

After three martinis my eyes turn red. Two Irish coffees and my sinuses decongest. After four tequila shots, I start to sing and THAT sounds like the neighbor’s cat in heat. I look as bad after the booze as I do after the ugly cry.

Forget about wailing when thing go wrong. Drinking is a therapeutic option; may even prevent Alzheimer’s.

       Note: Originally published by Mary Margaret in 2014

 

Mary Margaret, Blue Jeans and the Vanishing Male Butt

After a day of shopping with her husband, Mary Margaret’s late-night email was an alcohol-fueled vent. Her unedited revelation follows:

I know for certain that God is a man. Only a man would cause the aging male butt to vanish and increase a woman’s the size of an SUV.

My husband brought me his ancient blue jeans and wanted to know if I could alter them so they would fit. Forget cosmetic surgery. Those jeans require burial.  The waist sags and there are two yards of extra fabric covering a formerly cute butt. In addition to a disappearing hiney, he must be going blind how can he fail to notice his six-pack morphed into a full keg that dangles over his knees. There is no way any type of acceptable resolution can come from this situation. There is not enough vodka in the world to prepare me for telling him his is butt is history.

If I survive explaining  testosterone-be-gone,  there remains the delicate task of explaining costs. We have to make concessions to overcome Father Nature’s cruel tricks and solutions apparel solutions, as every woman knows, can be pricey.

In the land before time Years ago he wore slim cut, off the rack jeans. The man has no clue that sizes are a toss up these days. A thirty-three waist may be too big or too small, especially if one is dumb enough chooses to shop for apparel at Big Lots.

I devoted an entire afternoon to fetching and retrieving jeans while he screamed from the dressing room, “they don’t fit”. It isn’t my fault his body is in this shape. The tailors in Bangladesh have yet to experience creating a pattern for a non-existent butt. He’s too cheap frugal cost conscious to consider buying jeans that look nice but require a bit of tailoring to adapt them to fit his warped self-image. Noooo, he’d rather run me ragged.

I have run a marathon from the jeans racks then back to the men’s dressing room. I consider leaving him stranded in the dressing room and making a run for the parking lot. Surely the security staff would find him when they lock the building for the night.

There is no reciprocity in this situation. He hides like a rat when I shop; there is no way that man would run back and forth getting fifty pairs of jeans for me. Where is he when I am shopping for swimsuits?

I am done. He can adapt and wear geezer pleated polyester khaki slacks from Walmart. If he wants to look as hot as he did twenty years ago he would consider having an ass plasty gluteal sculpting. By my calculations, the procedure would pay for itself in tailored jeans and Xanax/Vodka in two years.

sketch copyright©by Krandel Lee Newton artist

 

 

 

 

Note: Originally published January 2014

 

Mary Margaret’s New Holiday Rules

Mary Margaret is instituting new holiday rules.

She is done; her give-a-damn is good and damn busted. Her email follows:

To people I can’t stand but tolerate family and friends:

I know you believe staying up until the wee hours of the morning preparing holiday meals for your enjoyment gives me pleasure. Well, you are crazy as hell couldn’t be more wrong.

I have concealed my true feelings for too long. The plain truth is on most holidays I feel like pure crap, the walking dead. I ask you, what kind of woman with half a brain today enjoys shopping for food, and spending hour upon hour in the kitchen chopping, stirring, and baking.

To the troglodyte family member who presented me with the five pound suckling pig, as a gift, guess where I ‘d like to stick the pig (at the risk of appearing unappreciative) I am not so naive as to believe this was a gift intended for me as much as it was a treat for you. A heartfelt gift from you would be for you to move to another continent to bring a single rose.

After the meal, there is none of the Norman Rockwellian bonding while clearing the table, loading the dishwasher and putting the table linens in the washing machine. Everyone scatters like dingos after the meal, leaving more hours of clean up for me.

You mistakenly assume cooking is my hobby. It is not a hobby; drinking reading is a hobby. Cooking ranks somewhere up there with cleaning the bathroom. I cook every single day, at least twice a day. I overheard that nitwit Shirley, say my holiday dinner is a labor of love. The only labor I’d love would be driving myself to a spa day alone, with some super hunky a masseuse who is mute.

I am more than a kitchen drudge. I’m turning a new page. My image is long overdue for an upgrade. Next year, feel free to have fries with your meal because  I am going on a cruise – ALONE.

 

Note: First published Januarry 2014

													
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