Fresh from Mesa Palms, Reno, Bettie finds that losing husbands is far easier than keeping her mind.
Look, diary, I’m Bettie and you gotta understand, outside of checks, I don’t usually do actual writing, so feel yourself privileged that I’m putting ballpoint to book here. The reason? Well, seems I’m about to embark on the kinda weird adventure that makes an Argentinian flap-wax look like a walk in the park. What’s about to happen is as far out of my comfort zone as my evil stepsister is out of her ever-loving mind. So I thought I’d keep a record just in case. Just in case, you ask? Well, the way my third husband’s been acting lately, it might be all the evidence I need to get off murder in the first. So, intros over. Let’s start filling you in on reality here…
Ah, which to lose first: my husband or my mind?
Y’see, life as a go-getting, thirty-something career woman is not all cheap wine, fast cars and hot tubs. Hey, highrolling hurts, buddy – as does relocating continents. Still, as my grannie used to say, “It’s all part of life’s rich tapas bar.”
Husband #3 is pretty fresh out the gate but, to be fair, it started out the big easy. He was, bless his whitie-tighties, owner of Bazongas, which as you no doubt know is the world’s largest nudist casino. He had slots down every aisle. He had nipples on the baize of thirty tables. He had cashflow. And then he goes and ruins it all by investing every last extorted cent in an online gambling den he’s calling ‘39-4-Ever.com’. Now I can’t say I wasn’t touched. I mean, not every woman has a casino named after her – even if it is a virtual one – and Big Frank is the kind of guy who thinks things like that are sweet.
The real trouble came when he told me that to run this new venture we were moving. To an island. Off England. Immediately, I put the brakes on. I was, like, no way, buster. Now while I have never had a good word to say about Mesa Palms, Reno – I mean, it’s no hotbed for taste, that’s for sure – that doesn’t mean I want to desert the desert and run to the hills of some rock in Europe. The Isle of Man’s hardly Manhattan. And cornered, Big Frank agreed. But as the good old U S of A didn’t look too kindly on gambling – unless it came to its economy – we couldn’t exactly run it anywhere on American soil.
I tried to put the kibosh on it again, saying that hurricane season was just not the time to go flying. Especially out of New York City, what with Hurricane Xevadiah blowing all the homosexuals into the ocean by order of that Sarah Palin 2.0 woman… But my pleas fell on deaf ears. The best my darling husband could do was advise me on not packing skirts.
I said London was as far as I’d go.
