First, forgive me because I am feeling loquacious, so this may take a few extra moments of your reading time. Add to the mix that I am annoyed, no, appalled, at what I see and hear in the workplace, home, my own social stratum, and let’s not forget the notorious eavesdropping that takes place against your will in a subway, bus, elevator, or even the stinking grocery store, where women are babbling away on their cell phones whilst I am trying to remember if I need olive oil.

I hear women giving their men marching orders, or telling them what they want or need, and what screw-ups they are, because they couldn’t manage to do “the one little thing I asked you to do” after they worked two jobs to keep their homes out of foreclosure.

I am sure this has nothing to do with my age. Although one may argue that I am fifty one years old, and “times are different since you were young.”

I don’t fucking think so.

I had a ‘romantic’ respect for life and family, in spite of the cards that were dealt me. It was probably because of the hardships I endured that I suddenly had a new appreciation for the lives of men. I had to work like one to support my child, alone. There was an accident that changed my life forever and it would thrust me into a male dominated workplace almost instantly. And before the feminists join in I am going to clarify my position on being in the male workplace as a woman.

I worked long hours, broke my ass, came home usually filthy, hurting, and exhausted, and no man in the workplace helped me do my job. There were no ‘allowances’ made for me being a woman. I took the job, and did the work. I was proud of myself. But I do have to say, that my grandmother helped me get into this place. She worked there through a war building aircraft, while the men were sent off to war to fight – and die – for our country.

I did it out of necessity, and took on tasks that were dangerous. More danger, more money. My daughter lost one parent already, before she was even born. Then silly me, I took on work that would put a roof over our heads and feed us, but there was always a chance that I could be injured. I did it anyway. Just like a man that loved his family.

I would be asked by other women things like “Why are you doing this sort of work? You are a pretty girl, you could have anyone you want.”

That’s it?

A pretty girl gets the money man? The guy to support her, worship her, take care of every whim? Just because she is pretty? I was supposed to be ‘ugly’ to do this sort of work?

I was devastated. The love of my life was hit by a drunk truck driver on his motorcycle. My dreams and heart just died on that day. And other women were telling me to shop around for a sugar daddy?

What planet do these women come from? I wasn’t raised that way. Real love mattered. Bling did not. I did not learn entitlement from my mother who raised four children with two jobs, alone. My father was a free spirit; an artist, alcoholic; a gifted and tortured man that needed to be free.

Our mother let him go. She did not nail him to the wall, teach us to hate his guts, or even speak badly of him in front of us. I went to live with him in California for two years when I was just nine years old. I thought he was the coolest dad on Earth. Families worked together, loved each other, and helped each other through hard times. Where did that go to? Where am I? I don’t recognize this place anymore. When I see a man with arm candy all I think to myself is ‘well-kept prostitute’ and thank-you-God, that isn’t me.

I learned how to be numb, just like a man. I learned sacrifice, just like a man. I would also learn much later in life, that I made some bad choices for myself. But I still have my pride, and, I might add; integrity. I did not sell myself to the highest bidder.

And all those hard working jobs I held? Men paved the way to them. The union contracts? Yup, men fought to get them for me.

I am grateful.

I want to ask the princess bitches of the world, what the fuck are you?

I already know the answer. Easily replaced.

I hope you like living in constant fear that if you do not pop out a couple of insurance policies – those children that get you the brass ring while destroying a loving father’s life, and stripping him bare of his worldly possessions – that the next princess may not need botox yet, and be much more warm and gooey, and fertile.

I could never live like that. I lost an extraordinary man. The one true love of my life. I know it has made me who I am today, and in some small way I am grateful for that as well. I wouldn’t trade knowing and having that kind of love for the brief time I had it – for anything.