Every One’s A Woman

Beleaguered Bettie starts saying her farewells to her all-female family – and finds that maybe she’s not too bothered about leaving the States after all.

Hi, diary, I’m back. Just catching a few moments to chart the next stage of my intrepid endeavours. Truth is, this week I have been gearing myself up to leave behind my house, car, family, friends, country – and twelve sizable suitcases of designer shoes that won’t fit in my triple-extended baggage allowance. Quick tip: Boy, do you all want to get down to the Reno Goodwill this weekend.

In the run-up to our departure, one thing I did have was lots of time to prepare. Y’see, about a year into husband #2, I vowed never to drink while working again – and I’ve never touched a job since – and this new-found freedom certainly suited the sudden flurry of panic at packing my worldly possessions ready to go, go, go! I also guessed I should at least attempt to see my family one last time.

To put things into perspective: me and mine hail from that great rubber capital known as Akron, Ohio, which is a fact that I don’t reveal too often. If asked, I say ‘Midwest’ and hope they think Chicago. If pressed, I mention a terrible childhood sports accident that scarred my lady bits for life and the subject gets dropped quicker than a Size 12 model at a Cosmopolitan photoshoot. As grannie used to say, “The reason is that this neck of the backwoods is full of people born with all their taste in their mouths.” After suffering the Akron Women’s Country Club Annual Moose Bake since puberty, when I married a man from Reno, I was on the next flight. Still if I’m heading to Europe for a while, the least I can do is pop my head around the lacy-curtained door and say, “Buh-bye.”

I consulted my maid, Firenze – her name’s actually Florence, but I like to speak her language – about my dilemma. I mean, for God’s sakes, I couldn’t see all of them. She asked who’s on the list. Well, for a start, there’s my hypochondriac stepmother (aka the USS Invincible) who’s signed up for so much surgery they’ve removed more bits of her than are left. There’s her trio of weird sisters – my aunts: Pissie Chrissie, Moanie Joannie and Weenie Jeannie. My Jewish princess cousin, who’s married to the ultra religious ex-Scottish laird, Uncle Thomas Feckswithin III. Cousin Irena with the crumbling shoulders… She stopped me there.

“Maybe, signora,” she said, “You pick the one with the biggest mouth and let them do the rest.”

Sound advice, I thought as I swapped her green card for a pink slip.

Two days later, I was in my rented Dodge Durango and on my way to Courtney Pines Golf Course to beg an audience with my evil stepsister, Muffy. That’s her preppie name, by the way. She was Maleficent all the time I knew her. Muffy is one of those annoying bitches who exercises for fun. You know the type. I, on the other hand, exercise not because I want to live longer, but I want to die thinner.

So as I strode into the Members-Only Gin Lounge, I knew this was gonna get interesting…

Thirty-nine Forever

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.