One Night Lonely

Home alone and distraught by current affairs, Bettie finds solace in the pages of her diary – and one or two sips of vintage vino.

Let’s not beat about the bushels, diary, old chum, I’m zozzled. Wallpapered. I’m higher than a giraffe’s toupee. I’m tighter than an A-cup bra on a Double-D tit… Yep, that’s right, I’m drunk. And I’d like to get a few things off my chest before I sober up.

The reason for this little state of affairs – or at least the catalysticlysm for it – is that I’ve been invited to a wedding. Not, you may at first think reason for declaring war on one’s liver, but in my book the merest mention of nuptial commingling sends me screaming to the drinks cabinet. Why? Well, it all comes down to two pints:

(1) it usually involves hauling my sorry ass back to Akron, Ohio, and,

(2) I keep expecting my dead father will show up.

Now, everybody who’s nobody knows that I’m more than a little thin-skinned in the Daddy department, as during my formative years, he cheated on my real mother with my fake one and then – one day! – Mommie Dearest was found poisoned by a herbal infusion from her spell book. The official report was ‘Malleus Maleficarum Aforethought’, which roughly translates as death by witchcraft. Personally, I think the USS Invincible dunnit.

Real dad and fake mum were married soon after, and Muffy graced us with her not inconsiderable presence soon after that. I moved out to grannie’s round about the time Daddy started his next affair. Then he vanished. The official report was missing presumed dead, but I know the she dunn-that, too.

At this point, the USS Invincible went stark raving mad and Muffy had her incarcerated “for the good of humanity.” I say it was murderous guilt that drove her over the edge. Or maybe she’s not as mad as she seems and it’s all a front. So you don’t have to imagine how I feel to be living with a suspected felon wanted in at least four or five different languages. Sorry, countries.

Hmm, I should’ve known this confession was on the cards when I got home and found a bottle of nicely chilled Chablis under each arm.

Now Muffy’s daughter is getting hitched and obviously no tasteless expense is being spared. I’ve only met her fiancé once, but they are a frickin’ unsufferable couple. My only salvation is the hope that they die before the event. Or I do.

Oh, and another thing worth mentioning: the good Dr. Dinkelïcker’s schmuck therapy is not going well. Take, by way of a great example, our first session where all three of us spent over two hours hunting for my stepmother’s revolutionary invisible hearing aid. Apparently, she’d put it down and now couldn’t find it. Eventually when we got started, his treatment consisted largely of connecting her to various bleeping machines and whistling Dixie.

OK, I admit, I might be a little biased here, as personally I think therapists are about as effective as most beauty wonder cures: i.e. a complete and utter waste of time and money. I mean, take anti-wrinkle cream. How can that ever work? If it did, women wouldn’t have any fingerprints.

“Aren’t I late for my spot on What’s My Line?” she said, as even she tired the lengthy analysis.

“Oh, only by about sixty years,” I answered.

When things were finally over, the quack gave me his verdict. Here, for posterity, is exactly how that went:

“In my professional opinion,” Dinkelïcker started, “your mother–”

“Stepmother,” I corrected.

“Your stepmother is a very melodramatic woman who adores misery.”

“And – let me get this straight – we’re paying you for these revelations?”

“She also thinks she’s Eleanor Roosevelt.”

“Genius. How much?”

“$500 every hour.”

“Then, in my non-professional opinion, she’s not the only one who’s batshit bonkers here.”

OK, my fessing up’s over. It’s late and it’s time to die, sorry, dry the ink on my wedding RSVP before I order Mona to start creating some of her one-of-a-kind wedding favours…

Hitting Bottom

Heading for home, Bettie discovers two new things have arrived on the Isle of Man in her absence. And she can’t decide which is creepier.

Like the moment I first saw a woman kickboxing with genital warts on prime time television, there are times when we’re all reminded that everything changes. One minute, we’re all covering table legs to avoid excommunication every time the vicar drops by, then – quicker than you can pop a pair of joy beads up your lovebox – the next I’m being asked if I want to vajazzle my pee-pee place every time I go for a wash and set.

I heard that little gem while visiting Time To Dye Salon De Beauté and Charcuterie (aka the haunted hairdressers of Ballasalla) and I haven’t been so shocked since I switched to margarine after watching that Last Tango in Paris butter scene.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

I arrived back on the Isle of Man to the usual madness. This time I ignored Big Frank’s online groans, my stepmother’s First Lady drones, and Mona’s cat-related… well, moans, and headed straight for my bi-weekly hair appointment. I was a full day and a half early, but it was either that or go insane on the doorstep. Still, as I left, Hubby #3 managed to wave a copy of our latest financial statements outside the taxi window, and it’s fair to say it contained more red figures than a Ralph Lauren textile factory.

Arriving at Time To Dye, I was greeted at the door by the owners, the lovely Baz and Lionel.

“You look positively haggard!” exclaimed Baz. “Doesn’t she, Li?”

“Oh, positively,” agreed his partner. “What has happened?”

“I think I’ve just hit bottom,” I said, as they bundled me inside.

“Oh, don’t worry about that. It’s all the rage. We hit bottom regularly.”

Inside, I found the clientele were acting like sex just got invented that week. The reason? The meteoric rise of ‘Mummy Porn’ that was currently being thrust down desperate housewives’ throats – and all because of some sexed-up kinkfest paperback that Baz kept calling, “Fifty Shades of Gay.” Bondage, Discipline, and Sado-Masochism was suddenly in Vogue – no, literally. Now, you couldn’t pick up a copy of a glossy women’s weekly without there being a whip, flogger, or spreader bar nipple-clamped to the front cover.

Truth be told, diary, I’ve never been au fait with kinky sex, but that’s probably because my past is packed full with loser lovers. Take, for example, one lacklustre Lothario who extolled his intimate sexual knowledge by spouting lines like, “The best way to pleasure a woman in bed is to go straight for her clematis.” Then there was the Army lieutenant who thought it was sexy to talk in combat code. That relationship ran into major snafus right off the bat. I mean, it was hardly the biggest of turn-ons being told he wanted to take me back to his place for a Foxtrot Uniform Charlie Kilo.

But, back at our house of horrors, I pulled up to discover we had another bat for the belfry. My stepsister’s white-coated therapist and some fur coated woman were standing on the doorstep, trying to convince my crusty maid they weren’t cat exterminators, but were instead there to see me.

“And you are?”

“I am Dr. Helmut Dinkelïcker.”

“And this is?”

“My wife, Helga.”

“So, she’s a Dinkelïcker, too?”

“Oh, ja! We come from a long line of Dinkelïckers.”

Sheesh, this island’s turned into a heaving hotbed of supercharged libidos and now everything sounds like bad innuendoes! Making my excuses, I dashed indoors. Because, at least I knew I’d be safe from anything even approaching sexual there…

Bend It Like Bettie

Arriving back in Las Vegas for a well-earned work break, Bettie finds that her first foray into the world of fashion is far from glamorous.

Ah, now this is more like it. Here I am, diary, soaking up the sin in Glitter Gulch; the world’s favorite gambling capital, Las Vegas. And, utterly by accident, I’ve arrived at the start of Mormon Fashion Week, so you can bet dollars to doughnuts it won’t be long before my coordinated ebony one-piece and character turban will be trending faster than a tits-out vacation shot of the Duchess of Cambridge. And before you say, ‘What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas,’ that choice phrase only applied when the way to break gossip was by carrier pigeon. Now if you commit a faux pas in the Flamingo’s poolhouse, the whole world’s been texted before you even have a chance to re-hitch your mesh bandeau and boyshorts.

So, that said, I was on my second-best behaviour as I swung into the lavish Sands Expo and Convention Center for its Haute-Tu-Trot Fashion Fantasy Extravaganza. Barging through the crowds, I stumbled from unaffordable collection to unaffordable collection, eventually taking a well-earned break watching what I thought was the kiddie’s catwalk breakout session. Turned out I’d stumbled into the daycare dungeon, but, still, it was a lot quieter than the main floor and meant at least I got a seat. Unfortunately, my final perch was right next to this cadaverously thin woman, tattooed husband, and their rabble of badly behaved brats causing havoc in the ballpit.

“You really are tres rocking that homeless chic look, no?” the featherweight female squeaked as I sat down.

Not really sure how I was supposed to respond to that, I instead pointed out that she looked positively gaunt.

“Gawd, thank you!” she replied, pleased as punch.

Still, always grateful for someone to chat to, I ignored her permanent pout and started yakking, telling all about me, 39-4-Ever, my current stepmother troubles, me, the embarrassment that is my third husband, me, me, and, well, I might have mentioned myself once or twice. After about twenty minutes of this, the malnourished missus told me I talked too much.

“Only in the company of people with nothing to say,” I said.

“Dernier cri!” she shrieked suddenly, realizing she was late for the Kourtney Kardashian Skin Winnowing Workshop, and I was left with her hubby who had his excessively inked hands full, trying to control their daughter and three sons. The resulting barked exchange went something like this:

“So, what do you do for a living?

“Harper!”

“You don’t look like a musician. Perhaps, more of a–”

“Romeo!”

“Well, you’re not really my type. For a start, there’s all those tattoos. Were they done locally?”

“Brooklyn!”

“Ah, a New Yorker. Did you fly here?”

“No, Cruz!”

“To the desert?”

Before I knew it, it was time to leave the fash-pack world far behind and slip effortlessly into my next – if you’ll pardon my French – Les Liaisons dangereuses.

I met Mister Tall, Blond Dalliance in the free drinks queue at some Fontana Lounge bash, while behind us the Bellagio fountains shot water and bland pop classics into the night sky. He asked if I was enjoying the expo, to which I replied that I was mixing with the kinda people who, at the end of the party when they say “Bye”, they’re asking you a question.

“Fancy a quickie?” he next asked, with a wink.

“As opposed to what?” I replied, picking up a vodka with more vodka and heading over for Siegfried and Roy’s new show, ‘Tigers of Passion’.

“Are you leaving already?” he questioned as I decided to cut things short. “I was hoping for dinner and a show.”

“You’re seeing nothing,” I told him over the roar of Celine Dion.

Later, we met again. Same drinks queue. Different venue. By now, I was on to pink gins. He said, “Look, tonight, would it turn you on to tell me when you have your orgasm?”

“OK,” I said, “but before I call, I think my cellphone needs a recharge.”

And so there I was, leaving Las Vegas. Shuffling up the carpeted concourse at McCarran Airport, I’m in line behind Quasimodo’s younger sister who’s enthusing to someone on her phone.

“Oh, it was so magical, I cried,” she simpered. “When I watched the fountains at the Bellagio, they had Whitney Houston singing ‘One Moment In Time’…”

Some people deserve to die. Repeatedly.

This Time, It’s Personals!

Struggling with her sudden return to work, the online gaming industry’s answer to Dear Abby finds that pretending to care is high on her first day to-dos.

Hi, diary. Today is my first day of… work.

I’m sitting in my attic office bent double over a desk that probably belonged to Bob Cratchit, sifting through my first In Tray task: tackling the backlog of 39-4-Ever’s gambling problem pages. And, boy, do we have some out-there customers. It’ll come as no surprise that compulsive gambling is the notorious pimple on the backside of the casino industry and somewhat of a double-edged sword; it cuts both ways. So far, Big Frank’s policy on anyone stupid enough to sign up for our suite of games is to suck every last cent from them as quickly as possible. But, as I’ve said before, he’s about as subtle as a wet tongue in your ear.

After a dash of research, I found some casino in Barbados had recruited Miss Hope, a recovering compulsive gambler herself, who offered encouragement and advice – and I thought we needed some empty promises of our own. So, today I start my role of Miss No-Hope. Because, hey, we can all pretend to care for a living. Here's a few of my favorites, scrapbooked for posterity:

From: mrluvverman

Subject: Unrequited love

I am the online gaming world’s Latino lover. Every lady worships me. Just one flash of my white suit and black shirt and they’re mine. All that is except ‘The One’. I met her at this fabulous cocktail party hosted by Ladbrokes to celebrate when Aspinalls Online Casino closed, but she ignored me totally. Can you help me turn my considerable charm up another notch?

Dear mrluvverman: I could be wrong, but I think that was me you were trying to impress. And you’re mistaken when you say I was ignoring you, as this is impossible when someone is holding onto your bra strap for grim death. Truth is, buster, I tried so hard to get away that finally the elastic snapped and catapulted me into the restrooms. So as first impressions go, you scored nil points. Bottom line? My body is a temple and I don’t want just anybody poking around my portico.

Hmm, this is easier than I thought. Seems putting the online gaming world’s problems to rights is a natural talent. Moving swiftly on...

From: ms goldenslotz

Subject: Help!

Being a woman in the 21st century sure is baffling! Just when I found solace in mint slacks, now the boob is out and the stapled bellyhoop is in. I just don’t know where I’m going to be injecting the next bag of collagen. Any advice?

Dear ms goldenslotz: Women’s roles are shifting so enormously, it’s a wonder we don’t break our hips. I suggest that since fifty is the new thirty, being thirty-two, you’re technically now only twelve, so I’m putting this down to a prepubescent tantrum and mailing your mother.

Well, by now diary, it’s midday and I’m pretty pleased with my progress. So much so that I’ve decided for lunch I’m gonna fly off for a few days to celebrate a great first morning.

Still, as I’ve previously mentioned, it’s a helluva long trip to Heathrow, so, suffice to say, when I finally reached the terminal, I was very, very late.

“Gate’s closed,” the high-altitude heffer announced as I staggered up to the desk.

“But I can still see the plane. You just have to let me on!”

“No can do…”

“But what about your ‘We Live To Serve You’ initiative?”

“Sorry, we’ve rebranded.”

It was then she pointed out the big sign swinging above our heads. It read: ‘BAA. We Couldn’t Give A Flying F**k.’

“But– But–!”

“Last bag for Vegas!” the bunchucker called, as I scrambled up the ramp.

Ah, grannie told me they’d be days like these. Pity she couldn’t have mentioned they’d be so frickin’ many…

Donkey Work

Much to her dismay, Bettie finally realises that her new-found involvement in the trials and troubles of 39-4-Ever is going to mean that she’ll have to do some work…

Why does my life have this habit of always getting complicated? While already having a troubled third marriage, an ailing online portal, one high-passion, low-cost lover, one high-drama, low-sanity stepmother, and a dodgy hip after falling overboard spectating at the Isle of Man hosted Olympic event of Synchronized Mackerel Trawling – now Big Frank says I’ve gotta earn my keep.

Sorry, diary, just had to have a little pause there to take a mental douche. Apparently, money’s getting tighter than a gnat’s a-hole, and Hubby #3’s had to let quite a few of 39-4-Ever’s staff go. And guess who he’s nominated to fill their forums? Still, the way I see it I’ve little actual choice. For while grannie always used to say, “Marry in haste. Repent in costume jewellery,” I’ve found that the real trouble with men is that you can’t live with ’em, and can’t buy anything without ’em.

And while I’m not one to promote – or even suggest I have – weaknesses, it’s also hard to admit that the reason I’ve never had a career is because basically, well, let’s face it, I’m unemployable. The mere thought of travelling three and a half hours every day in bumper to-bumper traffic to be the whipping post for a megalomaniacal boss with sado-masochism as one of his Facebook Likes sets off my psoriasis. Friends have suggested that perhaps I could work for myself, but, unfortunately, the same rules apply.

At the other end of the spectrum – in many categories – is my housemaid, Mona. When I talked to her about my predicament, she stopped mid-oven scrub and announced that to make ends meet, she had three jobs. I was almost as shocked as when she announced, “I ’ave me fingers in a lot of pies,” while Big Frank was eating her apple surprise. I mean, I didn’t even know they advertised for Internet trolls.

“When I’m not scrubbin’ my bowels out here,” Mona bemoaned, “I’ve got a craft stall flogging me real-hair handicrafts – and then there’s the charity work…”

Well, at least I think that’s what she said. Most of the time, her dialect’s so thick I can’t understand a word she’s saying. Apparently, the last native Manx speaker died in 1974. Probably starved to death trying to order dinner.

While I had not had the pleasure of experiencing her table mat sets made from pubic clippings, I have seen her in full-on animal welfare action on the Douglas dock front a few weeks back. She was standing shaking a bucket of assorted coinage under a sign that read: ‘Fighting Donkey Cruelty Since 1891’. Obviously it was taking her a lot longer than she thought. For every donation, Mona also gave away a selection of trinkets. But I wonder, could she not see the irony of giving good luck charms to children in bags marked ‘Potential Choke Hazard’?

“Do you think donkey coats will ever come into fashion?” I’d asked, staring at the various posters, poised to part with my two dimes and a Dr Pepper bottle cap.

“I hate mule-baiting,” she replied. “It gets on me nerves.”

While I had yet to stoop to these dismal depths, I was suddenly realizing that implementing some of my “brilliant, darling, brilliant” ideas for 39-4-Ever.com was going to mean that… I gotta go back to working for a living!