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I’m not a child, not a lover, not a sinner or a saint… just a bitch

Guess what I found out yesterday?

I’m a bitch.

That’s right. Me. A Bitch.

Or apparently that’s what a bunch of guy friends think.

Maybe not a bitch per say, but hard to live with. They have somehow gotten the impression that I am hard to live with. They think Esteban is a saint for being able to put up with my shit.

This is what happens when I give Esteban a bunch of kudos for being a wonderful husband. This is what happens when I show him LobotomyBabe’s entry in my guest book that heralded Esteban as a ‘good man’.

I become Cruella Deville without the stylish wardrobe. Roseanne WhateverHerLastNameIsNow to Esteban’s John Goodman.

I’m aghast. This whole time, I’ve been thinking that we were the paragon of a healthy loving relationship, both in private and to the rest of the world. This whole time, everyone’s been thinking that our home life is an enactment of ‘The Taming of the Shrew’ but without the witty iambic pentameter and Italianate architecture.

It all comes down to this: I don’t think of myself as a big girly girl. I’ve discussed this in the past. I like to hang with guys. I consider myself even an honorary guy sometimes. When I lived in London, my buds were the men. When my flat mates had a ‘penis exposure incident’, I wasn’t on the ‘Oh My God’ side of the fence with my girl roommates; I was on the ‘Laughing my ass off’ side of the fence with my boy roommates.

Thus, I don’t think anything of arguing with them when I think they are wrong. I don’t think anything of giving them shit or what have you. The women I know don’t do this, but I do. It’s part of my charm, I’d like to think.

It’s also part of the reason everyone thinks I’m a harpy ball buster.

Esteban was quick to point out that HE does not think that I am hard to live with. He just admits that I am argumentative. When I said ‘What? I’m not argumentative.’, he was quick to point out that I was arguing about whether or not I am argumentative.

For the record, I am very easy to live with. I don’t require very much from Esteban. God, I will go for ungodly long amounts of time before I bring up the things that he neglects around the house (stinking sink of dishes comes to mind, not touching a bag of garbage for six months comes to mind). I know women who require that their husbands ask permission before doing anything without them. I know women who tag along to every event that their husband wants to go to and then act all bored and pissed off while they are there. I know women who won’t allow their men to do ANYTHING that doesn’t involve them. I know men who regret every day since they’ve become married. I know men who must clear every single monetary purchase with their wives, including going out to lunch with their friends. I know women who berate their husbands publicly as being ‘stupid’ and ‘worthless’. I know men who had more autonomy when they were ten years old than they do now.

I’m not like that. I don’t own Esteban and I certainly don’t take the attitude that I’m his mother and must govern him.

But I guess they’re not basing their opinion on those little facts. They’re basing it on the fact that I have an opinion. They apparently don’t like women who disagree. That Gloria Steinem brain voice of mine never lets up, I tell you.

But then, maybe I’m biased. I mean, Esteban said that several people think I’m a scary person, so maybe I give off that aura. I do admit that I’m very sarcastic (I’m sure you didn’t get that impression from this diary, did you????). I also admit that I have occasionally been misinterpreted in my intentions. For instance, once as a joke, I took Scott to task as a joke for referring to me as ‘a spouse’ rather than a friend and I know I came off badly with that. I also don’t put up with much bull from certain people, so that probably supports it, too.

I’m sweet and lovable. Really. I’m a kitten.

I just want to get up on a platform and yell ‘I AM NOT A BITCH!!!!!’

I’m not. I just play one on Diaryland.

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