SAHM? Crap job? You're lazy!

Are you a stay at home mom or unemployed?

Haven’t gotten a raise since the Bush administration?

Getting a tax refund this year?

According to Twat Face (my fiancee Stupid's ex wife) you’re a lazy fucker who doesn’t deserve a damn thing, and you’re what’s wrong with this nation.

You, yes, you. According to Stupid’s ex-wife, if you make less than she does or you’re a SAHM and getting a tax refund this year, you are, “a lazy motherfucker who doesn’t deserve a refund! I work, I’m married, have 2 kids, and own a home and I don’t get a dime!” 

Well boofucking hoo, TF. So, because my company hasn’t given me a raise due to the economy, and I can’t afford my own home, I don’t work just as hard as you do? Oh, really now? Aren’t you the one who takes 2 hour lunches to shop? While I’m at my desk simultaneously eating & working? So, because someone was laid off, they’re also lazy and don’t deserve a bigger refund that might, you know, help them pay their bills? Oh, that’s right. Silly me, I forgot: if you’re unemployed you simply haven’t looked hard enough for a job. You should just take anything that’s offered, even if it means taking a minimum wage job that won’t even pay your utility bill.

You’re saying that SAHM’s don’t work hard? I know of at least one person who would vehemently disagree with you. Just because they do not get a paycheck for their endeavors does not mean they don’t work every bit as hard as those of us who go to an office everyday.  I will be the first to admit I greatly admire SAHM’s, for I could never do what they do, and I will also be the first to praise them for all the unsung hard work they do every single day.

So, because I’m actually getting a tax refund this year, I didn’t earn it? Based on..? What? Your incredibly narrow-minded idea that low wages = lazy?  Furthermore, so because you actually found someone dumb enough to marry your lying, two-faced, drunken self, you should get some sort of prize? You did. It’s referred to as: you had a party (wedding) and he bought you a house that you can ill-afford (to shut you up. His words, verbatim.) Yes, you had kids…But you seem to forget that both times you had the gene pool contributor narrowed down to 3. BOTH FUCKING TIMES. While you were married to Stupid.

Yes, by God, you deserve a reward. While the rest of us lazy fucks sit around and eat bon-bons.

Please, just…Do the rest of the world a favor and inject yourself with anthrax. Thanks, hon!

Why You Hate Me: the Collective Edition

If you’re a….

DRIVER: 

You hate me because my Papa taught me that 1) The speed limit is a suggestion, not a law and 2) it’s only illegal if you get caught. Thusly, I speed constantly. As in, if you are not doing AT LEAST the speed limit (preferably higher) I’m in my Jeep, swearing like a sailor at you. I do not make any exceptions unless I’m either in a school zone/residential area, or I have Kidlette in the car.  Other than that, put the fucking pedal to the metal and move it. (I absolutely LOATHE you if you’re driving a car I know damn good and well is designed for speed. So, you, in the $89k Porsche Turbo? Fucking use the car the way it was designed to. Jackwagon.)

MOTHER: 

You hate me for a litany of reasons. For one, I don’t believe in a lot of the new parenting philosophies you’ve decided to use on your little Princess. If Kidlette has been told NO repeatedly, she’s getting a spanking. That’s all there is to it. I don’t believe in praising kids for mediocrity. Bullshit that’s your best effort. One mother at my daycare probably would gut me if she could. Why? Her child went through a biting phase. On my child. My child, consequently, went through a hitting phase. On her child. Notice that the hitting phase stopped at soon as the biting phase did? Hmm. No, I’m not teaching her violence is okay, I’m teaching her to stick up for herself.  Also, YES, that is my child screaming in the store, and YES, I’m ignoring her. Why? Because she’s screaming because I won’t give her the Chocolate-coated-sugar-bombs cereal she wants. I’m also sending the message that throwing a tantrum AUTOMATICALLY means you’re not getting shit from me.

SALES PERSON: 

You hate me because I do not have a defined “style” and I never have. I have very high-end pieces in my closet (granted, they were presents) and I have things from Goodwill in my closet. Depending on my mood, I’ll look like a complete preppy, like a California surfer girl, a Gossip Girl cast member, or just plain old white tees-shirt and jeans. So, no, there’s not a “definitive style” I’m going for. That WASP sweater will probably get mixed with a second-hand pair of jeans and shoes I’ve had since high school. That punk hoodie? Will be mixed with Abercrombie jeans. Go die of shock now.

MUSIC PERSON: 

You hate me because there is not one set genre of music I only listen to. I’ve got everything from Mozart to Nine Inch Nails on my iPod, and I love them all equally. Something you need to understand is that music is most definitively a salve to my soul.  If I’m in a murderous rage, I will first listen to some very angry music because I feel like the artist can relate. Then, once the venom is gone, I’ll most likely switch over to Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake to sooth me. I know every word to Crimson & Clover, just as I know every word to A New Argentina. So if you only limit yourself to rap, or pop, or whatever, bite me. You’re missing out on some truly fantastic music, and do NOT lecture me. (Also, most rap is shit. Just saying.)

COLLEAGUE: 

You hate me because I don’t want to hear your BS excuses. You’ve been here long enough to know what forms I need to process your crap, and what needs to be filled out on said forms. Do not get an attitude with me when I reject your forms and explain to you less-than-patiently why I’m rejecting it. Also, playing dumb with me when you EFFING KNOW BETTER makes my blood boil, and I will not hesitate to boil over on you. Also, if you have a 4WD SUV, snow tires, and chains, you cannot call in saying you can’t make it to work for “road conditions”. I’ve driven to work when the roads were ice & slush, with a rear-wheel drive car with bald tires. If you’re the person who can clearly see I’m busy, do NOT demand something you can get yourself from me RIGHT NOW. AND FOR THE LAST EFFING TIME: IF YOU TAKE THE LAST CUP OF COFFEE MAKE A NEW GODDAMN POT ALREADY! Christ.

MEDICAL PROFESSIONAL:  

If I have no clue what’s wrong with me or Kidlette, I will respectfully bow to your superior knowledge. But if I know damn good and well what the heck is wrong with me because I’ve had this problem before, please just confirm it and write the damn prescription. Look, Doc, no girl likes coming in with a friggin’ UTI, but once you’ve had one, there’s no mistaking what the hell it is that’s making you pee fire every 2 seconds. Please just agree, run the test to cover your end, and write the Rx. Don’t say, “Well, it could be [insert incredibly uncommon condition] here as well.” Dentists, I’m sorry, but the phobia I have of your profession runs deep and I assure you is well-founded. To answer the questions I get asked EVERY SINGLE TIME: yes, I know how to floss. No, I don’t floss. Yes, I know smoking is bad for you and your teeth. No, I don’t plan on stopping. Yes, I was serious when I explained I need 3 syringes of Novocain. It’s call high-bone density which means I need more than most. If you’d throw in some gratis Valium so I don’t have a panic attack in the chair (has happened) we might both be spared the indignity of me pissing my pants.

Kisses, and remember: I hate you, too. At least it’s mutual. 

–Mad Merlot Mama

Texts From This Week...

... Because yes, we really ARE this funny in real life.

Gray stands for The Mad Housewife.

Red stands for Mad Merlot Mama.

Got it?

On with the texts...

I'm going stir-crazy.

Go for a drive.  Those babies got a daddy :)

Under the influence of morphine and white zinfandel?  Why not just write the DWI ticket now?

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Okay, so lady in the store had like six kids, all in a row.  She looked positively suicidal. Fuck. That.

Birth. Control. Learn about it. Use it.

Ick. Just ick.

I'd physically remove my uterus after child #3. Seriously.

Agreed.

And if the hubs even looked at me warmly, I'd scratch his eyes out.

Speaking of sex and hubbies, mine is being a total dick right now.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wine + morphine = vomit.  Who knew?

No shit.

Shut up, when have you ever known me to have common sense.

You want an answer, really.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Occasionally I look at myself and think: damn,  Did I win the genetic lottery or WHAT?

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Sending you a small box as soon as the road clears.

Okay, what is it???

You can tear into it as soon as it comes. But I ain't tellin. A little something I picked up cause it screamed "Mad Merlot Mama!!!!!"

Lol, okay thanks. Hopefully it's bail money.

Nope.

Damn. Because if I'm subjected to one more freaking hour of college basketball, I'm going to need it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Okay, I need to go to school.  My husband straight up ordered me to iron his uniform.  Hello 1952?  You can have him back now.

His last name is MR. MAD HOUSEWIFE, not DRAPER.

I straight up told him I was going to pee on him uniform and leave it in a corner somewhere.

Good one btw. Very appreciative.

Oh, the BEST part is he wants to SUPERVISE me while I press. Death by iron should be really painful, right?

It should be, and rightfully so

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My kid has charmed an old dude. Try charming me, kid.  Won't work.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Can you tell me what I did to make you piss yourself & thank the Kotex liners Gods

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If there's anything better than taking copious amounts of Ambien, than turning off all the lights and taking a really hot shower in the dark, I defy you to find it.  Besides sex and diamonds.  Those are always at the top of the list.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I am taking pictures of my vagina using the night vision app on my new iPhone.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


There's no "I" in "team," but there's about four in "justifiable homicide."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I asked Stupid for a poster of Clive Owen nude to hang above the bed.  Suprisingly, he wasn't amenable to this idea.  I am not shitting you.

Does that even exist?  And I'd ask him for a mirror- 

but only hang it on YOUR side of the bed.

I said to photoshop his face on David Beckhams body & I'd be happy

Woman you're a genius.  Hell, I'd just take Beckham's body.  

Forget the head, he's losing his hair anyway.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I may have to shank ******** if she cites road conditions for her absence again.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Well, ***** is excited I'm coming to visit.  Literally.

More penis pictures huh?

Yup.  Told him his girlfriend was 1) not my problem & 2) nothing but a scheduling conflict as far as I'm concerned.

I totally love you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


I'm cross with THE HUSBAND.  The kid managed to fall UP the stairs and both bump AND scrape it pretty badly.  There's blood EVERYWHERE and I scream at Hubs for help because I'm trying to see if she put a gash in her head (she didn't) and all HE does is SCREAM at her because she's sobbing uncontrollably.  Than he yells at me that he made her stop crying like I wanted. No you heartless jackwagon, I wanted you to calm her down so I could do MY job, not terrify her into silence.  Fuck.  She's fine now, washed her hair out and it's a scrape and a nasty bump.  And "No Running in the House" got bumped to the top of the House Rules list.

Christ.  You win, I'm glad and relieved she's alright.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wanna see the sexiest man alive?

Go for it.

Sir Patrick Motherfucking Stewart.  In a towel.

Uh, no.

OH YEAAAAAAAAAA!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I must be a fucking saint. I just let my ex video call with the kid.

Saint Mad Housewife the Pissy, patron saint of bitches everywhere.

<3

Don't bother lighting a candle at Mass.  Tiddle the skittle & have a glass of wine.  She shall be appeased.

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"I wan bankeeeeeee bunbuuuuuuun waaaahhhh"

Me fucking too

Translated: I'd like my blanket & bunny rabbit when you're done peeing and I stop my incoherent whining.

Mommy needs to learn how to say "Go get it yourself"

Mommy needs a shot of gin.  That's socially accepted at 10 AM right?

Only for mothers.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I mean judge all you want.  Just do it SILENTLY.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Okay, I want bacon, cheese, a burger patty, and mayo.  But nobody likes their ass shaking at the club... after you've stopped shaking your ass.

Mmmmmm.  Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.

Or as good as some hot as FUCK Marine's dick annhiliating your pussy because he thinks you are THE hottest thing he's ever seen.

^ THAT. That right there sounds amazing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Look Triplet, I'm gonna level with you.  What do I want to do when I visit?  Get the tat.  Fuck.  Party.  Like a rock/porn star.  It'll be a week-long party, adult industry style.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shaving.  In the shower. In the dark. Stoned on Ambien. Didn't exactly think that one through to it's logical conclusion.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Just pray to the deity of your choice that I'm getting a $5400 tax refund & not a $3000 tax refund, okay.  I'm being totally serious here.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'd like to thank Enrique Iglesias for getting me so turned on in a 9 minute period that the act of my hand brushing my arm almost made me orgasm.

Ick.  He's icky.

Close your eyes & listen to "Push It" and "Tonight I'm Fucking You."  And no he's not.

I'm like a dude, I'm visual.

Than close your eyes & imagine someone else.  The songs basically about a man TELLING a woman, "I'm fucking you.  Here and now, we are fucking."

Meh.

Christ, woman.  Just humor me. Music, for me, sets the tone.  At least it's not Total Eclipse of the Heart.  Cuz I fucking need you more than ever, bitch.

Sorry babe.  I don't need music.  Fucks with my concentration.

Just fucking listen to it.  Jesus.

No!  God, you're hot as fuck but you have horrible 

taste in music.  HORRIBLE.

I need you more tonight. I need you more than ever.  I don't know what to do.  I'm always in the dark...

Yea, I just want to fuck.

Hello? Is it me your looking for? I can see it in your eyes....

Hi clit.  Let me lick it.  I want you to come, hard.  

Now that's romance.

Be thankful I'm not sending you Hanson lyrics just to fuck with you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

<3 The Mad Housewife and Mad Merlot Mama

I Still Want to Stab Every Pregnant Woman I See

God is a dude who has one sick sense of humor.


My OB is located on the third floor of our local hospital.  And the office is sandwiched between two midwife practices.


Despite my unwillingness to have another child until I forget how badly the first one hurt, I still hate all pregnant women.


Yes, all of you.


It would make a world of difference if I could get pregnant at will, if I had the CHOICE to get pregnant or not.  But unfortunately, I have hypothyroidism.  Which causes anovulation.


My husband and I tried to get pregnant for an inordinate amount of time.  We started trying in February 2008, and quit trying in December 2010.  


That's a LONG FUCKING TIME.

Apparently I'm stupid and didn't connect that fact that, while we had the frequent sex part down, the eggs kinda need to cooperate in order to actually make a baby.  My eggs all take after me:  they're incredibly fucking stubborn, and do whatever they want, how they want, when they want.  

So, due to my refusal to take any more Clomid (because it makes me homicidal), we decided to quit trying.  I decided to lose weight (the doctor's nonmedicinal cure for anovulation) and get an IUD.


Because the LAST fucking thing I need is to get knocked up halfway through losing the fifty or sixty pounds I need to take off.  Kind of detrimental to the whole plan.


Back to the stabbing.


So I'm stuck in the OB waiting room, watching pregnant women waddle back and forth all around me.  My four year old, while looking absolutely beautiful and adorable, is sitting in the chair next to me and POKING ME.  Repeatedly.  


I wanted to kill her, but there were witnesses and cameras and the like.  


So all these pregnant bitches are all over my kid like "Awwwwwww, she's SUCH A DOLL!!!!"  Yes, she is, but GODDAMMIT what you CAN'T SEE is that this child is being SECRETLY ANNOYING AS HELL and despite how cute she is I WANT TO KILL HER!!!!


On top of this, there's like six pregnant women in the waiting room with me.  All of them are looking me up and down, trying to assess how far along I am.  I'm not pregnant, I'M FAT AND I HAVE HUGE BOOBS STOP FUCKING STARING AT ME GOD.  DAMN.  IT.


And they're all smugly holding their bellies, rubbing them like they've got OCD, and I just want to scream at them all:


"STOP FUCKING DOING THAT, YOU'RE NOT GESTATING THE BABY JESUS!!!!"


My logical self doesn't want another baby.  My emotional self is screaming "WHY YOU?  WHY NOT ME?  I SHOULD BE THE ONE WHO'S PREGNANT!!!!  FUCK YOU GUYS!  WHYYYYYYYYY?!?!?!?"


(My emotional self is incredibly loud.)


So, if you're pregnant and find yourself sitting in the waiting room next to a woman with an impossibly adorable four year old, and she's attempting to ignore all your attempts at communication, (and she's dressed incredibly fashionably), that's me.  And I hate you.


~ The Mad Housewife

Howdy, Fatty!

Hey there, Fatty! To answer your earlier inquiry as to why Stupid and I shoveled Other Neighbors sidewalk & walk and not yours when you have "bad knees" is really very simple. We call our other neighbor S.O.G: Sweet Old Guy. He served in WW II, and he's in his 90's. He can barely tie his shoes. His kids have to take him grocery shopping because he can't drive. His granddaughter comes over to clean his house because he can't even push a vacuum. Fiancée & I help out by weeding & mowing his lawn. He's also nice to our dog. Long story short, he's just a sweet old guy. You, on the other hand, are the reason fat jokes were created & why the rest of the world thinks of us as "fat, lazy Americans." You've clearly been fucking Little Debbie for years now, while you blow Jack & Carl on the sly. Every time I see you, you're slugging down a 64 ounce Coke like it's the last soda on Earth. Rare is the time I see you without SOME kind of chip bag, fast food bag, or snack cake in your fat hands. You have not picked up the trash accumulating in your yard for at least 2 years that I know of. And you know what? I've taken shits more attractive than you, and honey, I've had food poisoning. Long story short, you're fat & lazy. So, to answer your question, Lard-Ass...S.O.G can't help being old, but you can help being fat. Happy Shoveling, Shamu! <3 Mad Merlot Mama

The Mad Housewife's Morning

0410- Alarm. Roll over Shake husband awake. Hit the snooze button.

0420- Alarm. Reluctantly roll out of bed and pull on random clothes from the pile on the floor. Throw robe over everything. Slippers. Stumble downstairs, start car. Realize I forgot to put hubby's uniform in the dryer. Rush said uniform into dryer and pray. Put hubby's lunch in car, put trash on curb. Gulp down morning meds with OJ. Stumble upstairs, hand hubby slightly damp uniform. Feign ignorance about slightly damp uniform. Ignore husband's complaints about uniform. Subtly imply husband needs to stop being a pussy.

0431- Rush to car, drive husband to work. Hear for the ninetieth time that I drive too slowly. Ignore husband. Drop husband at work. Sigh in relief. Drive home.

0445- Get home, get back in bed, and attempt to go back to sleep.

0530- Realize that this sleep thing ain't happenin. Reluctantly roll out of bed. Strip sheets from bed, add those to huge pile of laundry in basket, and drag laundry downstairs. Start laundry in washer.

0540- Make a big ass cup of coffee. Immediately spill it on myself.

0550- Settle down in recliner with coffee. Turn on DVR. Thank God for coffee and reality TV.

(Apparently coffee DOES fix everything.)

<3 The Mad Housewife. And posted from my iPhone. Cause I'm freakin awesome.

I aint sayin' she a gold digger...But if the shoe fits...Well...

Money, as the saying goes, is the root of all evil.

For me, it's also the root of all happiness.

Yep, I'm a (designer) flag-waving, (platinum) card-carrying Gold Digger. And proud of it.

Why? Because I am sick to damn death of being broke as fuck. Sick of uttering the phrase, "It'll have to wait until payday." To buy store-brand $1.96 Wal-Mart wipes. I'm sick of not even having the cash to buy myself a coffee if the mood strikes me. Sick of relying on the kindness & generosity of others for the basics like clothing for my child.

See, I grew up upper-middle class. My parents made well over $100k. I never heard the phrase, "...wait until payday." If we wanted something, we bought it. Occasionally, my parents worked overtime but that was pretty damned rare. We ate out quite a lot, always had new things. And before you start blaming Bear & Wolf for not teaching me Financial Planning 101...Fuck the fuck off, they did. They explained the concept of budgeting, of not going into too much debt, and also explained that this shit didn't exactly just happen overnight.

Nonetheless, where they were at my age and where I'm at are WORLDS apart.  By my age, I expected the following:

-$40k job, with my own office, with people answering to my bitchy ass

-Either a high-rise luxury apartment in the city or a 3 bedroom, 2 bath house in the middle class burbs.

-A walk in closet, filled with the latest Nordstrom had to offer

-A drop-dead gorgeous husband, who worshiped me. Also making $40k

-Twin girls, with a Martha Stewart-esque nursery, attending the best daycare

-Getting Starbucks every morning, with dinner out 3 times a week

-Annual vacations

-Fairly large Christmases

Call me materialistic and a money-hungry bitch. 1) See my bio: don't give a flying fuck and 2) I never claimed I wasn't a materialistic, money-hungry bitch. But a honest materialistic, money-hungry bitch. "Can't buy me lo-ove." Um, actually, Paul, you can buy me love.

But at my age, what I got was the following:

-$20k a year job, answering to a boss who can be decent...If she's taken her Midol

-A rented, shitastic house that is one (very small) step above the ghetto

-A walk in closet, filled with the latest Goodwill has to offer

-A lanky, self-centered, abusive assfuck who more or less hates me

-A daughter I ADORE, with a third-hand nursery, attending a state-funded (read: shitty) daycare

-Yuban coffee, dinner out 3 times a YEAR off the Dollar Menu from McPukes

-Vay-cay-shun? Huh? The fuck's that?

-Christmas, made possible by our latest sponsor: charity

I've been told that if  you truly love someone, money doesn't matter. Horse shit. I cannot think of one single woman who says, "I know he can't hold down a job to save his life, and he's making minimum-wage, has a single-digit credit score, and double-digit debt that I'll be legally responsible for half of...BUT AH LURVE HIM, MAMA!" No. Doesn't fucking happen. No woman wants to live in a 300 square feet studio, budgeting down to the goddamn dime, depending on state assistance and charity, driving a piece of shit car. It just...happens. What, you think I fucking wanted it to be this way?!

Truth is, money matters. A LOT. I know what kind of lifestyle I'd like to lead. And face it: you working your $10.00 an hour job just ain't gonna cut it, dude. In the words of one of my favorite songs, "Wanna get with me with no money/ oh no I don't want no scrub." I want a man who can not only sufficiently support himself, but me, my child, and our future children AS WELL AS the lifestyle I want to lead.

Oh, please, do sit there, thinking how you're better than me. How the simple life is better and how I need to learn to appreciate what I've got, and cherish the small things. Aside from my catch-all FUCK YOU...I never have and never will like the simple life. Glad you like it, but I just don't. I wasn't raised to like it, and surprise, surprise I don't. I do appreciate what little I have because I am all too aware that this could disappear tomorrow. It's happened to me before, and I'm well aware it could happen again.

As for cherishing the small things? Do you know what gives me more happiness, more sheer joy, more unadulterated, undiluted contentment and love? What melts what little heart I have left? What makes me marvel every time at the unconditional, pure beauty of it? What is guaranteed to make me break out in the largest smile you've ever seen?

My daughter in my arms, or hugging me or kissing me, and whispering sleepily, "Ah wuv you, Mimi."  

Also, if you're a single male between the ages of 25-150, email is on the bio page. Just throwing that one out there.

Kisses, and, as always dearies...do fuck off.

-Mad Merlot Mama