<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5541508336749203294</id><updated>2011-04-21T18:41:15.384-05:00</updated><category term='Friends'/><category term='drama'/><category term='Bo'/><category term='info'/><category term='fights'/><category term='past'/><category term='angry'/><title type='text'>Constance Fifty</title><subtitle type='html'>Where I can let it all hang out.</subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://constancethefiftieth.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5541508336749203294/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://constancethefiftieth.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>Constance 50</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14299752635157258524</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_gw87psWeRDY/SGq1tvmtMEI/AAAAAAAAAAg/mzdsA2x5pss/S220/Vogue-Cover-Autumn-Fuchsia-1957-Print-C12196813.jpg'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>6</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5541508336749203294.post-8183483697029562085</id><published>2009-05-01T14:50:00.006-05:00</published><updated>2009-05-01T15:04:35.532-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Pissed Off</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;My brother's fiance' pisses me off a lot. I try to let her words roll off of my back because there is no need for major drama. Plus, I'm always being told that I'm too sensitive. I think that anyone would be bothered by being told &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;ul&gt;&lt;li&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;You sure are eating a lot more now that you are pregnant&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;You don't look pregnant, just fatter&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/li&gt;&lt;li&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;If you think that I'm not excited enough about the baby, it's just because I'm not. I don't get into that kinda thing. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/li&gt;&lt;/ul&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;The last one was just a little comical to me. It wasn't as hurtful or aggravating as the others. I don't want drama between her and me or my family/brother and me. I try to just kinda stay away from her as much as I can. She is stressed out right now and I have raging hormones. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;Anyway, today, I texted her to tell her that she was in my dream last night. In the dream she was pregnant. I thought that was funny so I told her. She texted back, "You are so afraid that I'll get pregnant that it's haunting your dreams :)" OK- *breathe*. That PISSED me OFF! BADLY. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;I send back to her, "Why would I be afraid of you getting pregnant? Seriously." She sends me, "It was a joke. Didn't you see my smiley face?" Ummmm, the fucking smiley face means nothing to me. She obviously thinks that I would be jealous or angry if she got pregnant. That is just not true at all. I told her that I saw the smiley face but that what she said was silly. That I would be thrilled when she gets pregnant. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;She didn't say anything back. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;This makes me so very angry. That is not me at all to be jealous or scared of her getting pregnant. I can't wait for my brother to have a child. I would not be upset and I am not "so afraid." This really shows that she doesn't know me at all. It sucks that she has that kinda view of me. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5541508336749203294-8183483697029562085?l=constancethefiftieth.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://constancethefiftieth.blogspot.com/feeds/8183483697029562085/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5541508336749203294&amp;postID=8183483697029562085&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5541508336749203294/posts/default/8183483697029562085'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5541508336749203294/posts/default/8183483697029562085'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://constancethefiftieth.blogspot.com/2009/05/pissed-off.html' title='Pissed Off'/><author><name>Constance 50</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14299752635157258524</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_gw87psWeRDY/SGq1tvmtMEI/AAAAAAAAAAg/mzdsA2x5pss/S220/Vogue-Cover-Autumn-Fuchsia-1957-Print-C12196813.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5541508336749203294.post-957102498516782774</id><published>2008-07-02T16:37:00.004-05:00</published><updated>2008-07-02T17:23:15.329-05:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='angry'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='fights'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Bo'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='drama'/><title type='text'>Drama, Cont</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;So, where was I? I've caught you up enough on Melanie and Brian to tell you how they are currently pissing me off. I have Phoebe right now. I've had her since Friday night at 10 or so. Yeah, the nine year old didn't get dropped off until then because Melanie had to wait for her new boyfriend to get off of work.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;Just to let you know, the new boyfriend is 19 (or 17 or 18. Melanie told me 19 but Phoebe said 17 or 18). Melanie turned 29 a week ago. He works at a pizza place and live with her. The worst part of all, wait for it cause ya'll are gonna die, he's in HIGH SCHOOL. Yep. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;So, I am going away for the fourth and Phoebe has things to do next week before I'll be back so she has to go home today. She's supposed to be with Brian (I guess, I can't keep up. In the summer, Melanie has her more) so it's him who has to pick her up. He lives about 2.5 hours from me or so. He is all pissy because I won't meet him halfway with her at 9-10 tonight. Fuck that. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;Oh, they have not once called her. She called her mother yesterday for the first time since Saturday. She called Brian and he didn't know what city she was in or when she was coming home. He says, "Does he have to drive &lt;em&gt;ALL &lt;/em&gt;the way here for her?" and "It's gonna be late." Does he think we have nothing else to do but shit for him? BOTH he and Melanie are so used to other people raising her. It's 4:47 and she left him a message hours ago and he hasn't called back. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;Am I required to stay up all night and wait for him to call whenever he is free? Wait for him to tell me he's on his way? Am I wrong here, because I know I'm pissed and I'm pissy. He still has not called to tell me when he wants to meet me to get his child. What the fuck? I would think that he should line all that up himself, right? &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;I'm having a terrible day. I started my period. My docs are being assholes. Bo and I are fighting (because I'm a bitch) so, this guy is just cruisin' for a bruisin'. My mom used to tell us that when we were little and bein' bad. I just wanna go outside and scream. Or smoke. Or sleep for a thousand years.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5541508336749203294-957102498516782774?l=constancethefiftieth.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://constancethefiftieth.blogspot.com/feeds/957102498516782774/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5541508336749203294&amp;postID=957102498516782774&amp;isPopup=true' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5541508336749203294/posts/default/957102498516782774'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5541508336749203294/posts/default/957102498516782774'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://constancethefiftieth.blogspot.com/2008/07/drama-cont.html' title='Drama, Cont'/><author><name>Constance 50</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14299752635157258524</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_gw87psWeRDY/SGq1tvmtMEI/AAAAAAAAAAg/mzdsA2x5pss/S220/Vogue-Cover-Autumn-Fuchsia-1957-Print-C12196813.jpg'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5541508336749203294.post-464622940327611336</id><published>2008-07-02T00:17:00.004-05:00</published><updated>2008-07-02T01:49:29.035-05:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='past'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='info'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='drama'/><title type='text'>Finally! Something To Bitch About and A Story</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;Well, it didn't take long for something (or someone) to PISS me off really badly. I knew that it was coming soon. I knew it ever since she called out-of-nowhere and I have NO desire to talk to her ever again. If it were not for the child, I'd tell her to go away. No, I'd say something SO much worse. She is so fucking crazy and selfish and I'd get that in there. For sure. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;Constance 14,000 mentioned about breaking up with a friend- yep, did that with this one. This is not Karen. This friend is Melanie*. Karen and I are very close still so the problems I have with her are current and on-going. The biggest problem is that she doesn't know there is a problem and that is SO. NOT. ME! I'm a confrontational person but I love her and sometimes just running away from her (or trying) is best. That is another story. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;Melanie and I are NOT friends. We were though, for a long time, from the time I was 11 and she was 13. She lived in the house right next door to mine and when I met her, I knew she was different. And how! She did things that had never seen and continued to shock me for the sixteen years that we were friends. The sex! The drugs! The lies and men and running away and pregnancies and moving around and on and on and on... It was so much. I was so Mary Sunshine at 11 years old. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;We never attended the same school, me private and she public. I was so Catholic school girl naive (OH the things she taught me) (blow job on a pickle!) and she was, ummm, not. She allowed &lt;em&gt;boys&lt;/em&gt; to sneak in to her &lt;em&gt;window&lt;/em&gt;! At 13!!! Thankfully, my mom was strict and smart and rarely left me alone unsupervised with her. Her home life was different from mine and it was sad. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;Melanie's mom (Jane) and dad were barely married before she was born. They were divorced before she was in school and he moved across country from them. Her mom is a very selfish slutty bitch. I am OK with saying that because I've known her since I was a child and witnessed it. When we became friends, Melanie was living with her mom, a stepdad and a half-brother and half-sister. Jane expected Melanie to do so much around the house at an early age and was never warm towards her. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;Melanie also only saw her dad once a year at the most. She blamed her mom for this. She was in charge of meals and raising kids and housework but got nothing. Her mom called her horrible names and treated her so badly. All of these things combined caused her to act out and she did. She had sex with EVERYONE and their brother (no, literally) and it was always drama. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;From a safe distance, protected by my uniforms and summer vacations and library card, it was tragic and fun. Until it wasn't. She left home all the time and ran away with guys. I'd be worried about her for long periods of time and then she'd finally call and put me in bad positions with her mother and mine. She was living in a filthy apartment and stripping in a dive bar by the time I was 17 (she was 19). That didn't last long because she met a guy there. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;He (Brian) is an AC guy so they met during the day. He was raised by pretty decent folks and has a nice family, but he fell for her. She got pregnant right away and that baby girl was born in June of 99. My goddaughter, Phoebe, who is with me right now. Brian and Melanie got married in August and moved a few states away. Melanie was so different for that time she was with Brian. She was very domesticated and motherly. She hated him, though and hated the "other state" so much. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;Brain did isolate her. He is jealous and controlling. He wanted her to fit a mold that was insane, especially when you meet a stripper and then marry her. So, Melanie calls me on 2-13-00 to tell me that he is mean and she wants to come home. I'm still living at home with my parents at the time, by the way. She tells me that he pushed her and yelled and the police were called. My dad pays for a one way ticket for her to come back home the next day, Valentine's Day. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;I go and pick her and Phoebe up at the airport and bring them home. At this time, Jane had left Melanie's stepdad for his brother. Um-hmm. So, he (the stepdad) was still living next door and let her and Phoebe stay. I took care of Phoebe everyday. She stayed with me in my room, my bed, many nights. She and I spent so much time together then because Melanie was reconnecting with all of her old "friends". &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;She came to my house one day with this scraggly little guy. He was unattractive and didn't present himself very good, either. She told me that she was taking Phoebe and moving to Big City with this ugly guy. Beginning of the end, I tell ya. It broke my freaking heart and I was in a panic. Phoebe was about one. She is now nine and I cannot even begin to tell you the number of men Melanie has lived with. Not just &lt;em&gt;dated&lt;/em&gt; or &lt;em&gt;fucked&lt;/em&gt; (that last number- triple digits), but lived with. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;She got married again after she became pregnant again (with the one she kept). Adam was born in October of 02. Melanie and Matthew divorced two years later, I think. During the time they were married, things were OK. We had a huge blowup while she was pregnant with Adam because she was wicked. I couldn't take the way she talked to me (first person ever to tell me to "shut the fuck up")(in front of the three-year-old) or Phoebs. Or the way she treated us. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;We made up and all was better until my wedding. I'm not discussing the shit that preceded my wedding that included my bridesmaids. Melanie and Karen were both part of that crap. &lt;em&gt;Any&lt;/em&gt;way, after she left Matthew, with her two kids, she went nuts. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;She had been OK to the kids. It was OK in that department which is the only one I care about now. She left Matthew and all of that went down the toilet. She was however old with two kids by two men and she deserved fun (her sentiment, not mine). She dropped them (one the other or both) at my house (I was married by then) on her way out or to a booty call. She lived 45 minutes to an hour away and would come and bring them at 10 or 11 at night. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;They were ill packed and Phoebe always had stories that froze our blood. She would leave them here (more Phoebe) for &lt;em&gt;days&lt;/em&gt; without calling or whatever. The clincher came when I went to stay with them right after Thanksgiving and saw how terrible she was being to the kids. It was so terrible and I was floored. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;She had no food and not the "no food" that you say when you really have stuff in your pantry but nothing fun. She had a messy, dirty place that was cold and gross. Phoebe was in Kindergarten and I have no clue how she made it. She wanted to live with her dad in a town about 30 minutes south, but Melanie refused. After I witnessed what I did, I talked to Brian and told him to get his child. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;Melanie would set her clock to wake Phoebe up then tell her to get ready for school. She would go back to bed and set her clock to get up to bring her to school. Phoebe was to get up, dressed, etc on her own. Melanie often yelled at her for things she couldn't help, she was five! She didn't feed her breakfast while she was screaming for it. When Phoebe got home, Melanie was in a bad mood and told her to go to her room. She wouldn't allow her to bathe. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;I tried my best to make up for her. I got up with Phoebe. I bought food. I bathed and fed and calmed after tears. I'm not saying that I am some great superwoman or mother. No. This stuff is common sense. I came home and talked to Brian and then he got Phoebe to come live with him. I felt better about phasing out of her life.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;I couldn't go to Phoebe's party for her seventh birthday. It was far away from where I live and I had car trouble. My husband was working out of town at the time. She lost it on me when I told her. Then she wrote mean stuff about me on her MySpace and that was it for me. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt; I told her everything I feel and she said some shit too but I didn't care really. My whole point is that what she did at that time did not cause the break up, the sixteen years of CRAZY did. I evaluated things and realized that never in our relationship- NEVER- had she done something selflessly for me. She added nothing to my life. Her kids did but she did not. Plus, I felt that being friends with her seemed like I condone her behaviors and I do not. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;Whew. That was cathartic to write. It took forever though and I'm tired. I'll have to continue the story tomorrow...&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;*&lt;em&gt;All the names on the blog are not the real names of the people being discussed. &lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5541508336749203294-464622940327611336?l=constancethefiftieth.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://constancethefiftieth.blogspot.com/feeds/464622940327611336/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5541508336749203294&amp;postID=464622940327611336&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5541508336749203294/posts/default/464622940327611336'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5541508336749203294/posts/default/464622940327611336'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://constancethefiftieth.blogspot.com/2008/07/finally-something-to-bitch-about-and.html' title='Finally! Something To Bitch About and A Story'/><author><name>Constance 50</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14299752635157258524</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_gw87psWeRDY/SGq1tvmtMEI/AAAAAAAAAAg/mzdsA2x5pss/S220/Vogue-Cover-Autumn-Fuchsia-1957-Print-C12196813.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5541508336749203294.post-3369056612124725684</id><published>2008-07-01T01:02:00.004-05:00</published><updated>2008-07-01T01:15:27.574-05:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Bo'/><title type='text'>Feelin Shy</title><content type='html'>I didn't realize I had the "moderate comments" thing on Constance the First and Super. Here I was thinking no one loved me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I guess I really don't have as much to bitch about as I thought. OR I'm not as comfortable here as I should be. Do ya'll feel like that? I am a little nervous to just let it all hang out, shall I say? I don't know if I'll shock people with what I have to say and with who I'll be here. Am I really a huge monster deep down? A sex fiend? A cursing idiot with an attitude, shopping addiction and insecurity. It is what it is though.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Bo is so totally adorable lately. He smells so good and is being the best snuggler. He is so cute with his funny questions about a baby and pregnancy. I just hope we don't have to wait too long for that. I'm sick of hearing about young girls and their accidental pregnancies or dealing with people like the one I deal with who has kids and treats them poorly. That is for another day. And I want to smoke. I'm not going to but I want to...&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5541508336749203294-3369056612124725684?l=constancethefiftieth.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://constancethefiftieth.blogspot.com/feeds/3369056612124725684/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5541508336749203294&amp;postID=3369056612124725684&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5541508336749203294/posts/default/3369056612124725684'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5541508336749203294/posts/default/3369056612124725684'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://constancethefiftieth.blogspot.com/2008/07/feelin-shy.html' title='Feelin Shy'/><author><name>Constance 50</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14299752635157258524</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_gw87psWeRDY/SGq1tvmtMEI/AAAAAAAAAAg/mzdsA2x5pss/S220/Vogue-Cover-Autumn-Fuchsia-1957-Print-C12196813.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5541508336749203294.post-8326697696458228657</id><published>2008-06-24T21:35:00.003-05:00</published><updated>2008-06-24T21:48:38.509-05:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Friends'/><title type='text'>With Friends Like These...</title><content type='html'>I love Karen. I really do, but I'm sick of her opinions. Mainly because I know what they are, I've heard them a thousand and one times before, I'm a quick study. I get it and I don't really care. I'm gonna do what I want to do with my life because it's MY life. I didn't ask for her opinion and so it's unsolicited. I am famous for giving advice where it's not asked but at least I'm nicer about it. Maybe that doesn't matter. Maybe I should shut up, too.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;One of the reasons Karen doesn't like this particular decision though is because it will take some of my time away from her. She cannot take that. It's something she always goes insane about, not that she ever admits that point exactly. Everything that takes my time away from her she hates. It's exhausting at times.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;She is not all bad. I feel guilty for portraying it like that. It's probably just because I'm a terrible person. Really, she's a great friend who doesn't like to share. I'm in a bad mood. Thank god I have this blog to vomit all my grossness out onto. Right?&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5541508336749203294-8326697696458228657?l=constancethefiftieth.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://constancethefiftieth.blogspot.com/feeds/8326697696458228657/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5541508336749203294&amp;postID=8326697696458228657&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5541508336749203294/posts/default/8326697696458228657'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5541508336749203294/posts/default/8326697696458228657'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://constancethefiftieth.blogspot.com/2008/06/with-friends-like-these.html' title='With Friends Like These...'/><author><name>Constance 50</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14299752635157258524</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_gw87psWeRDY/SGq1tvmtMEI/AAAAAAAAAAg/mzdsA2x5pss/S220/Vogue-Cover-Autumn-Fuchsia-1957-Print-C12196813.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5541508336749203294.post-6742718679256528037</id><published>2008-06-23T22:30:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2008-06-23T22:46:05.126-05:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='info'/><title type='text'>New To the Building</title><content type='html'>I'm finally here. It took me forever but I'm finally here. I don't have anything to bitch and moan about right now but stick around because I will. I am not giving anyone who is related to me this address. That was a mistake! Whew!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;This is a place where I am going to feel free to be me. I am "me" at the other place, too but this is another side of me. The side who cusses like a sailor (&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;OK&lt;/span&gt;, that is me all the time, I just have to squash her most of the time) and talk about sex and bitch and moan about the people who piss me off.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm CL- C for Constance and L for the Roman Numeral for Fifty.&lt;br /&gt;I'm married to a guy I'm calling Bo and we are trying for a baby.&lt;br /&gt;We live a sweet little life somewhere down here in the South. It's pretty great most of the time. I still find stuff to bitch about...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;(Oh, I &lt;em&gt;do&lt;/em&gt; have something to bitch about. A girl I know is pregnant. Sigh. I don't really like her. That is why it's bitch-worthy.)&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5541508336749203294-6742718679256528037?l=constancethefiftieth.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://constancethefiftieth.blogspot.com/feeds/6742718679256528037/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=5541508336749203294&amp;postID=6742718679256528037&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5541508336749203294/posts/default/6742718679256528037'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/5541508336749203294/posts/default/6742718679256528037'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://constancethefiftieth.blogspot.com/2008/06/new-to-building.html' title='New To the Building'/><author><name>Constance 50</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14299752635157258524</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='23' height='32' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_gw87psWeRDY/SGq1tvmtMEI/AAAAAAAAAAg/mzdsA2x5pss/S220/Vogue-Cover-Autumn-Fuchsia-1957-Print-C12196813.jpg'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry></feed>
