Darling Little Dick Doll

I am so sick and tired of Dick and his fucking antics. The man said we are over, packed his shit, and left the kids and I, yet he insists on texting me every damn day and makes up excuses to come over. Now that the grass is dormant and doesn't need mowing and he has changed the oil in my car, I do not need him over here for anything (except maybe for sex, but technically, I could get that anywhere). Enough is enough!

I've tried telling him that he didn't need to text me at all and that he wasn't welcome back home, but it goes in one ear and right out the other. Remembering that he said all men are visual creatures, I knew I had to think of some other way to reach him. I had to show him exactly what the hell NO meant.

Rummaging around the house, I had a brilliant idea. Most of Dick's shit had been sold, dumped, or boxed up and put in storage. He did have a few pairs of socks left in his drawer. My creativeness took over and before I knew it, I had made myself a lovely Dick doll. I proceeded to shove a fork in its side and take a picture. I then sent it via text to Dick with the following message:

Leave me the fuck alone or your dick will resemble the doll in the pic. Now fuck off!

Needless to say, it has been rather peaceful ever since. I'm not sure how long it will last, but I will enjoy it while I can. Now if you'll excuse me, FedEx just arrived with my brand new meat cleaver.

Dude, Where's My Car?

Those of you who know about Dick, knows he likes to fuck with me (that sounded bad on so many levels). Anyway, last night was no different. I'm sitting on the couch, minding my own business and attempting to watch a movie when my phone starts beeping -- texts from Dick. I ignored the texts for over an hour and then the phone rang.

At first, all I could hear was loud music. After saying hello twice, I was about to hang up. Dick then makes some comment about being at a strip club and hung up in my face.

Oh no he didn't!

Refusing to just "let it go" like my family and friends have been pleading for me to do, I threw on my shoes and grabbed my keys. I knew which club he was at (the same one he always goes to), so I was there in less than twenty minutes. Spotting his truck, I parked near it. Making sure he or any of his friends weren't around, I quickly got into his truck and drove several blocks down the street. I parked his truck and walked back to my car in which I jumped in and quickly drove home.

I slept well last night knowing that when he came out of the club and discovered his truck was gone that he'd be pissed. I slept well knowing that he probably had to call a cab to get back to wherever he was staying. I slept well knowing that I forgot to lock his truck and by the time he found it, everything would be missing.

The moral of the story: Never fuck with a bitch who still has keys to your car.

What The Future Holds

Yesterday would have been my eight year anniversary to my husband (had the punk ass not left). I figured there was no sense in letting the occasion go by uncelebrated so I took some of the money I had made selling Dick's shit and purchased a nice dress, I dolled myself up, and took myself out.

I ended up at my favorite steakhouse where I enjoyed steak and coconut shrimp, had one too many pina coladas, flirted tirelessly with the waiter, met a man named Philipe, plotted out my husband's death, paid Philipe his deposit for carrying out my death request, enjoyed a Mississippi mud pie, gave the waiter my number, and called a cab to take me back home.

Okay, so I was kidding about the whole Dick death plot (or was I)?

I spent the rest of the night thinking of the eight years I wasted on Dick's ass -- the things I could have done, should have done, and could have done without. Trying to find a silver lining in all that bullshit began to give me a headache (although it could have come from the pina coladas). I decided it was time to start fresh.

I will be enrolling myself into E.C.P.I. (evil & corrupt people institute) to sharpen my skills. Once I've completed the necessary courses, I shall have the proper ability to make Dick's life a living hell after which, the kids and I will be relocating to an undisclosed location.

Oh, the future looks so bright.

Let The Dead Horse Die

I don’t mind being criticized. I don’t mind being picked on or made fun of. What I do mind is repetitive bullshit. I can’t stand someone repeating the same shit over and over again as if I didn’t hear it the first time. Beating a dead horse drives me insane and that’s just what Dick has been doing.

Despite the fact that I have filled out numerous job applications, turned in my resume to a number of places, and have just recently posted an ad offering childcare, I have yet to get myself a damn job. This opened the door for Dick to constantly remind me of how this isn’t helping our situation.

Oh, really? Like I had no fucking idea (even though he has repeated it a hundred times).

Needless to say I had to think of something to shut this man up before I had to put my foot so far up his ass that he wouldn’t be able to sit for a week. I searched around the house and thought of the perfect idea. I grabbed a zucchini, some yarn, and a googled image of a dead horse. I then turned the zucchini into something reminiscent of a demented My Little Pony. I set the dead horse on the counter and waited.

It wasn’t long before Dick started in again. I took a big ladle and whacked the horse on the counter. He asked what the hell I was doing to which I replied: You seem to be having so much fun beating a dead horse that I thought I’d give it a whack (and I hit the thing again).

He seems to have gotten the point and isn’t hounding me as bad. Hopefully someone will call me back soon.

That's A Lot Of Cock

It's been about two weeks since Dick has been back and I have seemingly developed tourette's syndrome. You see, we discovered that we drive each other insane quite often. We then allow those annoyances to turn into heated arguments which in turn, escalate to an all-out brawl. In order to squash all that, we devised a plan -- when we get on each other's nerves, we say the word cock to get the other to shut the hell up. So far, it is working.

The only problem is that I say the word a lot. While grocery shopping, I shout cock as Dick's complaining about the prices began to sound like nails on a chalkboard. While fishing, I yell cock as he is constantly bitching about how windy it is. I said it so many times yesterday while painting that I thought I would begin to show rooster-like behavior. I had already had a habit of saying oh god when I was displeased with something -- throw cock in the mix and I appear to be mental.

The looks I've received are just as funny. The way people react to some crazy bitch shouting cock is downright hilarious. I'm sure some think I'm some sex craved loon, but that's fine by me. It'll give them something to talk about at their next boring luncheon. I'm just glad that I haven't felt the need to polish up my forks and stab Dick in the eyes (yet). I know things will not always be peachy, but for now, I'm going to enjoy the peace and quiet (even if I have to yell cock to get it).

A Pill Isn't The Answer

WWSD? Suzie would say okay and welcome him back.

This just in -- I received a text from Dick saying he is willing to go to counseling to figure out why he's such a dick. I said I needed proof and he brought me back a doctor's signed prescription for Zoloft (an anti-depressant).

Okay, wow! I fucked this man over so bad he needs medication? He's sad because he had a woman that took care of him and his children? He can't function because he had everything and now he can't cope? Ugh!

I wish he could switch places with me for one day. I wish he could referee the kids, fix breakfast lunch and dinner, keep the house clean, keep himself looking presentable, go on countless job interviews, battle the old perves on a regular, and feel halfway decent when the day is over. It isn't easy.

Give me medication. Give me something so I can forget the fact that I'm doing this on my own. So I can forget the fact that I could have been so many things, but chose this instead. Give me something so I don't feel bad when my son asks me what I did to make dad go away. Give me the piece of mind to know that karma is really real.

I can't stand people who hide behind shit. If you have problems, admit them and deal with them. Don't hide behind shit or sweep them under the rug. Your problems will always be there until you deal with them -- medication isn't going to do it for you.

Tool Foolery

WWSD? Suzie would wait patiently or hire a handyman.

Dick was serious this time. The real estate agent arrived today, looked over the house, and told us what we needed to do. Apparently, it isn't as cut and dry as I had originally thought. We will have to make a few repairs and fix some minor eyesores before we can even list the house. Unfortunately, this is going to take longer than I had thought and most of the repairs require power tools -- which is not my area of expertise.

Dick, being the cheap twat that he is, wants to save money and do the repairs himself. Problem is, he doesn't have keys to the house and I don't want to be anywhere near him. This means that I have to find somewhere for the kids and I to go whenever he wants to bring his sorry ass over here and fix shit. Great.

I think I'll start watching the Home and Garden Channel and the Do It Yourself Network 24/7 instead. Between all the info and my ability to improvise catch on quickly, I should be able to give Bob Villa a run for his money in no time flat. Within a week, I should be swinging a hammer, operating the drill, and sawing wood like I've done it all my life. And if not, I will at least have learned how to use a table saw properly (this will come in handy when I cut Dick up into bite-size pieces for the fish).

Wish me luck. If I don't become discouraged by the fact that these people can renovate a whole house in thirty minutes (minus ten minutes for commercials), I'll definitely be discouraged by the fact that I have yet to work up enough courage to turn the jigsaw on.

Too Little, Too Late

WWSD? Suzie would accept the apology and work past the trust issues.

I love to watch someone who knows they screwed up try to place blame on anything or anyone around them. Seeing them squirm in knee-deep denial always gives me a chuckle. Watching them stutter through endless excuses and blab on about meaningless "buts" tickles me to my core. No matter how hard they try to cover up their faults, they can never seem to hide them completely. They still shine through like booty dimples in spandex leggings.

A couple of nights ago, Dick came over to pick up some parts for his truck. While he was here, I kept to myself. Apparently, he was looking for my affection as my distance seemed to piss him off. Before he left, he mumbled a few words about having finally met someone else and that it was going good so far. I told him I was happy for him and waved him through the door.

I have been ignoring his texts since then and last night, I guess he'd had enough. He made up another excuse to come over. I let him in the house without saying a word and returned to my movie. After getting his things, he walked in the living room and asked if we could talk. I simply shrugged my shoulders. He went on to apologize and said he hadn't found someone else -- that he was just mad.

I could bite my tongue no longer and these are the words that flew out my mouth: "How in the hell are you mad? You left. You are the one playing the damn mind games. While you're out doing god knows what, the trust in this relationship has left the damn building. I will never believe a thing you say and do not want to spend the rest of my life wondering what happened while you've been gone. Too little, too late. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to finish my movie."

He fucked up and he knows it. The sad thing is, I'm not sure this will ever work again. I cannot see myself with someone I cannot trust and at this point, I'd trust Scott Peterson before I trusted this fucker again.

One More Time For Old Time's Sake

WWSD? Suzie would light the candles, dim the lights, and have some nice background music playing.

Me? I'm going to hell in a hand basket.

Dick came to pick up the kids last night. He had been texting me all day and hinting around as to some possible "things" we could do. He gets here and asks if we can talk. We proceed to the bedroom and shut the door. He says he misses me and wants to you know. I tell him to take the kids to his parent's house and meet me back at our house at eight.

He left, looking like he had just conquered the world.

Eight o'clock rolls around and he's right on time. He opens the door and is greeted with my fine ass (what? I can't think my own ass is fine?) fully dolled up and waiting patiently on the couch. It was all I could do to not burst into laughter while watching him watching me. He had no clue what was coming (a hint -- it wasn't him).

Things begin to get hot and heavy. For a brief second, I missed the good old days where this was actually pleasurable. Just as soon as it was all about to go down, I pushed him off, grabbed my robe, and asked him to leave. He of course, looked confused as hell and I simply said:

"I refuse to be just your sex toy. When you can get your head out your ass long enough to think about the kids and I, then I'll consider giving myself to you again. Until then, I'd rather have sex with Richard Simmons while listening to Sweating to the Oldies. Now if you don't mind, I have some rather meaningful shit to do."

I then locked myself in the bedroom until I heard him leave. God what an asshole! I'm hoping that wasn't his way of saying I'm sorry -- If so, it was pretty pathetic.

No Insult, No Injury

WWSD? Suzie would turn the other cheek and excuse the behavior as stress related.

I love when someone tries to insult you, but they can't seem to find anything bad to say. They fumble over their words looking for any flaw and continue to come up empty handed. The look on their face shows their intent -- they want to hurt your feelings, but just don't know how. Lucky for me, I'm damn near perfect (kidding).

Listening to Dick trying to insult me has to be one of my all time favorite pastimes. Seeing him searching his mental databank for anything to throw at me is more amusing than watching a woman walk in six inch heels after one too many drinks. I love it! He always fails to come up with anything remotely hurtful and looks like a jackass in the end.

Apparently, Dick has decided to delay selling the house (I have no idea why, but whatever). I tried to inquire as to why the hell he'd do that and the verbal games began. The usual bitch and whore ensue, neither of which I am so it doesn't affect me at all. Then comes the you were never good at (fill in the blank with pretty much anything) as to which I know better and it goes in one ear and out the other.

By the time the conversation was over, he was verbally spent and I was laughing like hell. I offered a simple I didn't know you felt that way followed by the dial tone and that was the sword in his side. When will he learn, he'll never win with me?

So here we are, back to square one. I have no idea what is going on inside Dick's pea-brain. He is apparently more confused than I had originally thought. I'm hoping he'll pull his shit together sometime soon and figure out what the hell he's doing. Until then, I'm going to continue doing what I do -- writing about it.

The Male Brain

WWSD? Suzie would patiently decipher each and every one.

I really don't understand men sometimes. You tell them to leave you alone and they won't. You flirt like crazy and they act like nothing's happening. You shove a foot up their ass and they get mad. They shove theirs up yours and you're supposed to like it. I am tired of trying to figure men out. Unless they speak to me in English and clearly state what it is they want, I'm not going to bother with any of it.

For the last several nights, I have been under the attack of drunken texts -- ranging from I love yous to I hate yous, I want you backs to I hope you rot in hell. The first couple of nights, I tried to decipher Dick's intentions. I attempted to pick apart his slurred words (yes, he's slurs when texting) looking for any meaning whatsoever. I quickly came to the conclusion that not only was there no meaning, I really didn't care to know it if there was.

I have since turned my phone off at night, but that only delayed the inevitable. As soon as I turn my phone on in the mornings, I am attacked by the constant beeps. The night's conversation comes pouring in at once. The latest text has me the most confused:

I love you. I want you back. I called Tom (the real estate agent) and he should be by tomorrow. I hope you rot in hell for what you've done.

Yeah, okay. You love me, but want me to rot in hell. You want me back, but are putting the house on the market. And for what I've done? He left, not me.

So you see, I'm done with trying to figure out the male brain. It is too damn time consuming and I have better things to do. I'd rather spend my time with a bunch of old ladies playing Bingo and discussing which brand of denture cleaner works the best than attempt to decipher this shit.

I'd Rather Date The Devil

WWSD? Suzie would accept the invitation and have herself a lovely day.

I cannot believe the balls Dick possesses. How the hell do you leave your family for over three weeks and then invite them to go fishing with you like nothing has happened? What makes him think I will simply overlook the fact that he's been cuddling up to strippers for affection and accept an invitation to do anything other than string him up by the balls? I swear this man has been drinking some silly juice to think I would be remotely interested.

I'd rather date the Devil than spend even a second with Dick. I'd don a bright red, satin dress with my longest, spikiest heels. I'd walk hand in hand with the demon. We'd eat at a fine restaurant and pick the warmest corner to sit. He'd entertain me with idle tales and utter lies, but I wouldn't care. He'd trick me into coming back to his place for a nightcap and I'd find myself trapped in the depths of hell for eternity. This appeals to me so much more than being on a boat with Dick.

I ended up answering his text with this:

"I appreciate the offer however, I must admit that I'd rather hang myself with my own bed-sheets than to spend another moment with you. You repulse me in ways I cannot describe. It would be so kind of you to lose my number and never call or text me again. Enjoy your day and may your penis get caught in your zipper -- twice."

I am beginning to think there is truth in the old saying that some men think only with their dicks. He's such a prick! Now if you'll excuse me, Lucifer's calling.

Once Bitten, Twice Shy

WWSD? Suzie would welcome him back with open arms and a smile on her face.

I must have fool written across my forehead. I must walk around with a kick me sign taped to my back. Apparently, I am giving off the vibe that I am a sucker and will fall for anything because Dick thinks he can send a few half-hearted apologies via text messaging and I'm supposed to just take him back? Uh, no.

I don't know where people get off thinking they can hurt you, say sorry, and waltz back into your life like nothing happened. Do they not realize that they have to prove they are sorry and not just merely say the words? Why in the hell would I believe he is sorry when not only has he done this before, he's done it numerous times?

Let me guess: I'll take him back, things will be fine for a minute, things begin to get a little rough, and bam -- he's gone again. Sorry, but I'm no fool. There aren't enough I'm sorrys to warrant me allowing this poor excuse for a man back into my life. Someone could not pay me enough to deal with his issues any longer. Even if he promised to cook and clean until his dying days -- I am not taking him back.

So now I'm torn between listing his sorry ass on craigslist (as Satan reincarnated) or auctioning him off on ebay (as no longer needed). I'm sure I wouldn't get much either way I went, but it would be fun to screw with him anyway. Perhaps I'll list him on both, send him the links via text messaging, and tell him to leave me the hell alone. Even if he doesn't get the hint, I'll get a good laugh. I hate assholes!

Mother Facker

WWSD? Suzie would not let anything ruin a day that was set aside for her.

Dear old Dick left this past Thursday night and I haven't heard from him since. I have actually been enjoying the peace and quiet of his absence. Of course, today being Mother's Day, he had to show up. He wouldn't be Dick if he didn't.

I received a text asking if the kids were dressed as he wanted to take them out. I reminded him it was Mother's Day and I had my parents and brothers over for lunch and that he was welcome to see the kids this evening. Apparently, that wasn't good enough. Twenty minutes later, he shows up, knocks on the door, and walks right in. I politely ask him to step outside and begin to rip his ass apart.

How dare he leave and not bother letting his kids know he's okay? I haven't been able to answer the fifty plus questions they've had because I don't know where the jackass has been. How dare he come strolling in with enough drama to make a damn Lifetime movie when I just told him I had company and he was welcome to see the kids later? How dare he expect us to drop everything we're doing to appease him when he's the one that left us in the first damn place?

Needless to say, he tucked his tail between his legs and left. He later informed me that he had plans for this evening and wouldn't be able to pick up the kids (I'm now positive he never had any intention on doing so anyway). He has been repeatedly texting me and this is how I've answered: I've turned off my phone. The kids and I went to the store and bought massive amounts of junk food. We've rented three movies and will be spending the rest of the day pigging out and laughing.

The hell with him!

The Other Woman

WWSD? Suzie would not mind that her husband has a mistress and would blame it on him just being a man.

Night after night, it is the same old story. I sit on the couch and flip through channels, hoping to find the meaning of life or at least a halfway decent drama to make fun of while Dick spends his time with her.

She, my dear readers, is a wonderful companion so I see why he adores her. She doesn't talk back (unlike me who tends to talk too much). She is always ready and available (unlike me who has to split my time between squawking kids, dirty laundry, endless cooking, and anything else that has to be done around here). She complains about nothing (while I tend to complain about quite a bit).

She, my dear readers, is also known as our computer and she must go down.

I've taken it upon myself to learn a thing or two about her. I've found that she doesn't resist viruses very well. I've found that if you take away her cookies, she moves much slower. I've discovered that I can't give her the boot as she just comes back, but she does have a mouse and when you feed her mouse baby oil, she gets quite squirrelly about it.

I was sure that with all this new information, I would be able to dispose of her rather easily, but it turns out that after all my research, I've now developed a crush on her myself.

No Longer Secret

WWSD? Suzie would overlook the fact that her husband was hiding her Victoria's Secret catalogs in his garage.

The Boy had a project due for school and he needed a box to accomplish this task. Me, being the good little Suzie that I am, decided the best place to find one would be in the garage. I start going through the massive mound of boxes that have been collected since Dick started ordering parts for his new car. I had almost given up hope on finding an empty one when I picked up one that finally felt light. I took the top off and couldn't believe what I saw.

There in the box, stacked ever so neatly, were five issues of Victoria's Secret catalogs.

Now, I know I hadn't put them there and my kids never get the mail, so this had to be of Dick's doing. This would actually explain a lot. If you recall, we haven't been doing much lately, so the Vicki girls must be getting all the action.

Now I'm pissed! My blood has been boiling ever since and I spent half the evening figuring out how I should handle the situation. I think I've finally devised a plan. I am going to replace the catalogs with pictures of my ex-boyfriends. I will then put them in the box along with a mighty handsome dildo and a tube of lube. Oh, to see the look on his face when he makes the discovery! Priceless.

Ebb And Flo

WWSD? Suzie would overlook the fact that she's bloated and cramping and help her husband plant the garden.

Let me first start by saying that I didn't want a garden in no way, shape, or form. I knew what was going to happen. Dick and the kids would till the soil and plant the seeds. I would be the one spending the entire summer weeding and picking the fruits of their labor while they were out having a good ole time. I really wasn't feeling that idea at all.

So, you can imagine my dismay when I woke up this morning to not only a visit from my Aunt Flo, but my darling husband demanding that I help plant the garden.

As any good little Suzie would do I put on a smile, popped a few Tylenol, threw on some shorts, and got to work. I must say, it was rather satisfying to picture my husband's face as if it were the soil as I dug. There was something calming about chopping worms in half as I mixed in the fertilizer. But, by the time I was done, I didn't feel like doing a thing.

As always though, a good little Suzie’s work is never done. I must now wash the laundry and prepare something for dinner. I think I’ll throw a red shirt in with my load of whites and overcook my spaghetti noodles. Hopefully that will make me feel better.

Sexless in the City

WWSD? Suzie would only expect her husband to want her when he wants to.

See, this is the problem with marrying a man that is nine years older than you. You end up hitting your peak and he has already peaked. I try not to nag him about it (because that wouldn’t be very Suzie of me), but damn – a girl has needs too.

What gets my panties in a bunch (and not in a good way) is the fact that he only wants to do things when he wants to. He doesn’t care that I’m sitting over here drying up faster than the deserts of Sahara (too much info -- sorry). He doesn’t care that he hasn’t displayed affection in over a week. He doesn’t care that I’ve been sleeping on the couch because I’m afraid I’ll strangle him in my sleep. All he cares about it his own damn needs and as long as they are met, everyone else should be fine.

I bet he’d care if I ran off with the pool boy. I bet he’d care if the mail weren’t all that the carrier was delivering. I bet he’d get off his arse if he knew I was initiating a new rule: do me before I even think about doing you.

Hmm…perhaps I could kill two birds with one stone and make those exlax brownies Viagra and exlax brownies instead. Now there’s and idea -- must go get started right away.

Dinner's Done

WWSD? Suzie would have a grand dinner sitting on the table when her husband returned from work despite having the swine flu.

Today started out like any other: Waking up at the butt crack of dawn after sleeping on the couch yet another night, making breakfast, packing lunches, and getting the kids off to school. I wasn’t feeling well, so I decided to take the day off from work. I spent the first half of my morning alternating between trips to the bathroom (I’ll spare you the details) and half dead on the couch. The second half was spent refereeing kids and cleaning house.

All was fine until his highness arrived home with yet another attitude. Apparently pissed off because I didn’t have dinner sitting on the table.

What ticks me off is how I’m expected to do everything as normal when I’m sick, yet when Dick is sick, he does absolutely nothing (except spend countless hours in front of the computer). Despite looking like hell and feeling worse than hell, I was expected to have a three-course meal ready when my man returned from his hard day at the job (did I mention he was laid off and has been working with his dad renovating a house?).

So, needless to say, I quickly threw some popcorn shrimp in the deep fryer, heated up some leftover mac and cheese and green beans, and told the kids to wash their hands. They all sat, eating happily. I am still plotting a fitting revenge. Exlax brownies perhaps?