Hot dang!

Times are still tough for Bettie as she gets forced to offer her inimitable talents for Hubby #3’s online casino.

Formally released a week later, me and mine breezed in to find the Isle of Man was hotter than July. In July. Go figure. Chomping at the bit to start the task of turning around the fortunes of 39-4-Ever, I started scribbling out plans to add a host of hot extras to the site; a Dear Abby column, multiple choice therapy quizzes, debt counselling, etc… The final list was impressive, and certainly firmly in my mind as I joined Hubby #3 at his weekly Gambling Gathering Group (being the official meet-up for all the folks who run e-gaming on the island). It was a poor show as the gang now consisted of the lads from 666Bet, Doris with the drooping eyelid from StripPokerStars, and the suited brigade from Macrogaming. Huddled around a small table in the non-air conditioned sweatbox that is the Parrot and Mongoose, a clutch of bon vivants we ain’t.

Still, the press coverage garnered from my High Court hijinks gave us a much-needed cash injection – as did the fact that our web address got spray painted on the back of a camel that happened to catch fire and was filmed by CNN in an effort to fill a lull in its 24/7 Iraqi Blitz ’n’ Titz live coverage. This minor blip of excitement aside and finally home at last, I unpacked the Duty Free, watched the sun set through my vodka and lime, then checked my messages. Worryingly, I found Jerinda’s daily emails were already stacking up.

> Are You Prepared To Cross Life’s Electric Fence?

> Get All Your Pistons Firing As You Start Living Your Wow-Now!

> Are You Ready To Show Off Your Big Fat Hairy Goal?

After twenty or so of these high-drama calls to action, I needed to lie down in a darkened room. Regrettably, sleep was not – alas! – on tonight’s agenda. For no sooner had I said hello to Mister Sandman, then my iPhone started blaring out Wagner’s Flight of the Valkyries. Aw, crap! It was my psychotic prom-queen bitch of a stepsister, Muffy.

“How considerate of you to call me in the middle of the night,” I said. “We’re five hours ahead, remember.”

“Are you? It’s hard to keep track. Anyhow, I’m just home from my yogic-therapy evening and thought I’d call. I was just trying to be nice…”

“Nice? You’re nice in the same way that you’re blonde.”

“I am so offended by that remark.”

“I’ll let you know if I start giving a damn.”

Icy silence reigned, then:

“I’ve spent the evening with Helmut…”

“Your therapist? That guy’s such a jerk.”

“Oh, I just adore him,” she said, sounding like she was calling from the 1950s. She also, I noticed, sounded out of breath.

“Are you calling from your treadmill?” I questioned.

“No, tantric sex. Nothing really happens for hours, so I’m catching up on my To-Dos…”

It was then that I asked if there was an actual point to the call – other than to pant in my ear? To which Muffy replied that she had started investigating alternative therapies to cure her mother’s insanity. And that she was sending her batshit crazy quack over for a series of sessions.

Boy, now there’s something to so look forward to. As if the Isle of Man wasn’t littered with enough loons, already…

Bettiegate

Our heroine takes on the U.S. Justice Department as she tries to rescue Big Frank from his impending jail time.

My arrival in New York, New York, was timely to say the least. When I reached the final hearing in United States v 39-4-Ever.com, it was not exactly a hotbed of activity. While the collective members of the country’s primary federal criminal investigation and enforcement agency were supposed to be debating whether the world’s best online casino for women on the verge of a Bingo meltdown was used to launder money, actually they were mostly either asleep or sitting around on their ever-widening asses.

As I took my seat, the Deputy General Assistant Attorney Something-or-other was waxing lyrical about how the Federal Wire Act prohibits all forms of U.S. gambling. This was then countered by Hubby #3 who pointed out that it was for this precise reason that we had been forced to move to the Isle of Man to run what we were laughingly calling our business. Well, it certainly wasn’t for the joy of hearing The Bee Gees Stayin’ Alive being played night and day from memorial speakers in the local graveyard, I can tell you. Then Big Frank launched into a long and extremely boring exposition about how the island’s government made it an attractive locale – financially at least – with all kinds of juicy tax breaks. Though, admittedly, to benefit from that meant you had to earn enough to actually pay any tax.

It was round about then that I decided to chip in.

“Look, I’m the wife,” I shouted, “so I have a pretty large stake in the outcome of all this. I also come from a family that firmly believes the word ‘wife’ is not an acronym for ‘Washing, Ironing, Fu– Fornicating, Etc’. No, our voice counts.”

Unfortunately, my voice didn’t count.

Still, after sorting out all that contempt of court nonsense, it was nice to see Wanda, my NYC girlfriend, in the gallery gracing us with her not inconsiderable presence. Also saw that her latest tweet was true – ‘Dear friends, it’s #LMLM Day: Liquid Midface Lift Monday!’ – I don’t know if she wanted to look like someone had taken a Chippendale wing chair and stuffed it behind her mouth, but her cheeks were now so pronounced, every ten minutes or so her neck got tired and she had to rest her face on the seat back in front of her. As you know, diary, I’ve never been too keen about nips and tucks – which all stems from my years with Hubby #2, the rhinoplasty surgeon with the hump removal fetish. Of course, I’ve always wanted to go in for a face lift, but I’m just too damn petrified at what they’ll find underneath.

Anyhow, never one to miss a money-making opportunity, I sold my body as advertising space for the Isle of Man Government. When I sashayed past the cameras with my backless Yves Saint Laurent evening dress and ‘Let’s All Gamble In The Isle of Man’ shoulder tattoo combo, it certainly spiced up the closing argument. I mean, I’m not sure what I had originally planned for Thursday brunch, but bringing down the U.S. Government was not high on the list.

The resulting hoo-ha saw several barked exchanges, a jury punch-up in which the prosecutor lost his toupé, and I ended up compromising my Honour. The New York Time’s headline “Bettiegate Topples Supreme Court, Plaintiff’s Rug, Into Judge’s Lap” was definitely one for the scrapbook.

Success Stress

On her way to New York, Bettie finds time for a surprise visit with her new Success Coach – and completely fails to make an impression.

For all its obvious pluses, living on the Isle of Man also means every time I want to fly anywhere international I am forced to schlep to UK’s fine capital. Still, never the one to miss turning a negative into a positive, I killed two birds with one martini-shaped stone by scheduling a London layover that saw me trying not to be seasick at the Lyceum iGaming Summer Social Boat Party, before popping in to see my new Success Coach.

Like Abraham Lincoln, I’ve failed my way to success every time, so the thought of paying some string-thin Brit bint to tell me what I was doing wrong was never going to make my Top Ten list. But after my maid Mona put the fear of God into me by pointing out, “You’ll end up living foot to mouth – you see if I’m not right!” I decided I needed to take action fast.

Actually, I got the idea as I snatched my diary back from Mrs. Roosevelt and caught sight of the back cover blurb about the author, Jerinda Rawls Kingston-Royce:

Jerinda’s Success-A-Day Diary

One Diary… A Lifetime of Experiences!

Internationally-famed Life Strategist, Success Coach and Stay-At-Home Mum, Jerinda perfectly balances her life with yours. Do you Want to Achieve 101% of your Destiny Potential? Of course, you do! Then…

Blah-de-blah-blah-blah… It went on like that for a while, but the general gist was, in addition to daily Top Tips, Words of Wisdom and Inspirational Nuggets, jolly Jerinda offered coaching to get one’s life back on track. I figured it was worth a shot.

How to describe the swanky Kensington offices of Living Your Success Limited, diary? Well, since London was still clearing up the discarded Kate Middleton masks and Union Jack bunting from HRH’s Diamond Jubilee bash and was now in full Olympic Games frenzy, the place felt like an oasis of calm by comparison. It also suited its CEO who, it’s fair to say, had more personality than Barbara Streisand’s drinks cabinet. At first she was reluctant to grant an audience, but it’s amazing what waving a Mastercard can do.

“I’d like to start with a bit about you,” the backcombed businesswoman began. “Can you fill in this brief questionnaire?”

A long time later, Jerinda grilled me over my answers.

“You’ve left a few boxes blank?”

“Like what?”

“Like birth date.”

“Is that relevant?”

“Yes. How old are you?”

 “Thirty-nine… Ish.”

“And for Sex M/F, you’ve written ‘one and a half’.”

“Well, that’s how many times I had sex between Monday and Friday.”

As you can imagine, this went on for some time...

Finally, Jerinda announced that time was up, but she really didn’t need a crystal ball to see exactly why my life was in the crapper.

“You need to take control,” she said simply.

“Of what?”

“Of everything. Your marriage, your twisted family relationships, the business…”

“The business?”

“Yes. Let’s imagine you ruled the world, Bettie. What would you do?”

Well, didn’t that open the floodgates. One minute I was bemoaning the fact that, for Big Frank, expanding our online offering meant little more than offering punters beauty tips with their blackjack. The next we were talking about my entire laundry list of woes and my ideas to turn 39-4-Ever into a raging success.

“That’s more like it!” Jerinda enthused as she bundled me out the revolving glass doors and into a waiting taxi. “And remember: The secret of future success lies in being successful in the future!”

Well, I couldn’t argue with that.

On the drive to Heathrow my head was reeling, but one thing was crystal clear now: Starship Bettie was ready for lift-off!

Desperate Measures

After thinking her diary lost forever, Bettie rediscovers her journal of woes in the strangest of places…

You have to be frickin’ kidding me, diary! Here I was thinking you’d been lost for all eternity or just spontaneously combusted with the heat of all the hot gossip sandwiched between your pristine pages. But, nah, nothing so dramatic. Instead, you were buried under a pile of briefs and thongs in the bedroom closet of  former First Lady, Mrs. Eleanor Roosevelt. Yep, that’s right. For the last four and a half months, I’ve been sharing this crumbling ruin, marriage and family business with my stepmother, the USS Invincible, who now no longer believes she’s been abducted by shape-shifting aliens and replaced by a plant-based replica. No, now she thinks she’s Mrs. F.D.R. And that you are her – wait for it – FBI file.

“J. Edgar is never getting his hands on this anytime soon!” she shrieked, as I wrestled it from her white-gloved grip.

“You’re damn right about that,” I said.

“Show some respect! I’m ranked in Gallup’s List of the Most Widely Admired People of the 20th Century!”

“Only after you’re dead,” I replied.

And though it pains me to say, this is the least of my problems.

Add to this that our Isle of Man-based virtual casino continues to guzzle a fortune in cash, my husband’s been arrested by the Feds, and our home is still plagued with more tailless felines than you can shake a stick at – and you can see how I might have benefited from some cathartic scribbling over the past however-many weeks.

Actually, it’s rather timely we’ve been reunited, as in the next few hours I’m setting off for New York to attend Big Frank’s final judgment. The charge? It turns out that 39-4-Ever, the world’s largest online casino for women with more wrinkles than Ben Franklins, has transgressed several ridiculous gambling commandments concerning something called the Wire Act, though all this makes me think of is some clown tightrope-walking across Niagara.

But, re-reading these pages, it does make me realize I’ve gotta keep more of a lid on my revelations as there’s some pretty damning evidence here. My Greek tryst with Mr. E Blond for starters. I mean, I have to think of Big Frank’s weak heart – and his three-hundred-bucks-an-hour attorney. Actually, on this island, it wouldn’t surprise me if adultery was settled with a beheading.

So, it can’t be stressed enough, diary, these are desperate times and they called for desperate measures… of gin. Still, I haven’t gone through this many husbands without knowing all about comebacks, and in my hours alone, I’ve devised a way outta this mess that’s a sure-fire winner.

My evil master plan? I’m getting a Success Coach…