Oh yes… let the fun begin…
Tag Archives: Nathan Steinbauer
James Beard Wannabe
Oh Liarpants… my daddy laughed out loud at you. I didn’t even have to Google it for him to tell me you were full of shit.
D- Babydoll… that is seriously pathological…. but wait… you never even told me he was a chef? If this guy is the James Beard Rising Star then I should have heard about his cooking…and I happen to know that Gabriel Rucker won this year.
J- Well….. he makes torchon. It’s his big deal. Ewww. He made me dinner once… but it was pretty bad. Too salty… with some sort of sausage, broccoli, crayfish soupy stuff under a steak… with a bone.
D- Oh. My. HA HA HA. You hate meat on the bone.
J- I know, but he had already bought it… and you know me… what was I going to say?
D- I don’t like meat on the bone?
J- Yeah right.
But… and I only know this because I am an absolute brat…
He’s not a very good cook… and I couldn’t finish it because it was so salty and so… well… overcooked. Dude if I want to eat broccoli paste? I’ll have my 11 year old boil some for me.
The steak was perfect… after you fought your way around all that nasty fatty disgustingness. Blech, gag… wretch.
They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach…. but it’s not. It’s through his balls and we all know it. The way to a woman’s heart is a man that knows how to be domestic in order to delight her.
Feed me.
Tell me about it.
Talk to me while you cook and tell me what you’re doing.
It’s the highest form of foreplay you can achieve with me and if it’s done well? I’m sold. I’ll buy the farm. I’ve already picked out china patterns in my head after the second course if it’s really good.
I do not leave food on my plate…. hence the chunk-tastic thighs.
I also only send one thing back when I don’t like it…. and that’s steak….
and how on earth do you send the steak back if it’s your boyfriend cooking it? You don’t. That’s what. You suck it up and eat it…
Even when you don’t like it…. and you pray he doesn’t notice that you hardly touched it…
Even though you know he did.
You make excuses. You’re tired. You’re feet hurt. You want to take his clothes off and really thank him appropriately.
lol… or you’d rather get laid than eat another bite.
Either way- it worked… and I was pushing away my plate in minutes. Wondering how long it’d take him to pass out before I could eat a bowl of Lucky Charms.
Annoyed enough at how bad it was to be a brat about it… dice some onions and garlic and REALLY cook dinner.
Show him how it’s done… Mr. I-wish-I-could-be-talented Steinbauer.
Dude… put down the salt and walk away slowly so that people can eat your food without three glasses of water.
Or vodka…
Which improved the taste exponentially- thank you.
Watching him shake like a crazy person while trying to cut his steak sort of takes my mind off the taste in my mouth. I’m grinning at him, thanking him for the amazing dinner… lying through my teeth.
It’s the thought that counts, right?
No.
When it comes to food? It’s the taste that counts. Sheesh. Buy a clue, Liarpants.
But the James Beard?
Give me a fucking break. Do I look like an idiot? Or just play one convincingly?
The James Beard Rising Star award is the epitome of chef-dom. It’s what they all pray for when they close their eyes at night. They all want it.
None of them get it.
Least of all, Liarpants with his nasty ass too salty overcooked broccoli.
Dude… please… you have to get up very very very early to fool a foodie…
and the closest you’re getting to a James Beard? Is to Google it.
BTW…. it’s his birthday…
Happy Birthday… To Us.
Happy Birthday to me…
Happy Birthday to her… and her… and her……
Happy Birthday to all of us…. & fuck you, Nathan.
I would love to say I’m surprised, but I’m not. I saw the signs. I saw the writing on the wall… I knew he was bad news after the first two weeks. I ignored some of it because it was nice to have someone to take care of again. It was nice to be doted on, complimented and adored. Who doesn’t want that? I named him Perfectpants for a reason… he pulled out all the stops…
The difference is that I know what that feels like when it’s genuine, and I never got that feeling from Liarpants. He spent just as much time making me question myself & our relationship as he did trying to convince me. I wouldn’t be surprised at all if he is clinically bipolar. Heaven help us all if someone adds Lithium to that mess though. Yikes.
I can be devastated by the situation, but I refuse to be reduced by it. If it’s one thing I’ve learned being single, it’s how to pick myself up and dust myself off.
It all begins and ends with being a mommy. My children are the antidote for anything and everything heartbreaking.
I’ve been fighting a cold, brought on by too many sleepless nights and early mornings. My appetite is gone. I’m surviving on cottage cheese and diet Pepsi… what a combo.
I threw on a swimming suit yesterday afternoon and headed out to the garden for peace, absolutely burned out on hating Nathan. Kicking my shoes off at the gate and sinking into the fluffy grass mulch that I’ve been spreading all week. Allowing myself to cry about it for a while. Hating the hot sting of tears in the beautiful summer sunshine.
Feeling like the village idiot who got played by the village retard.
Feeling humiliated. Stupid. Squandered. Deceived…. and most of all? Held hostage by the love I crave. Disappointed, yet again. Another bad choice? Great…
Not proud of myself either, because I’d love to be woman enough to turn the other cheek, like I know is right and can’t manage yet. So shoot me… I’m not evolved enough to not be completely mortified at buying his whole dog and pony show.
So we took a bike ride to the lake and went swimming. We stopped for soft serve ice cream cones on the way home and giggled as the chocolatey vanilla-melty mess dripped down our arms and off our elbows. We laughed. We stopped at the park and swung on the swings for a while to the sound of the music festival taking place in the field next to us.
Laughing with my baby girl. Being kissed by the sun and the balmy summer air wrapping around my naked ankles, knees and elbows. Warm from the inside out… and really, truly happy.
Reminded what matters.
Remembering what’s important.
Forgiving myself…. and forgiving him.
Oh Nathan… you poor sad soul. He’s lost so many amazing women, that it has to hurt. I’ve outed him to the people whose respect he is constantly seeking… I’ve exposed him for who he really is.
It was the only gift he deserved.
Mrs. First deserves a few years of child support, an apology and the ability to trust & love freely again.
Ms. Babymama deserves her life back. She deserves to move on. She deserves the same apology and the same child support, and at the minimum? His respect and gratitude.
I deserve someone capable of being fabulous and honest at the same time. Someone worthy and someone capable of more than pouring me drink or cooking my steak perfectly medium-rare….
Truth is priceless, even when it’s painful… and I’d rather have a beautiful soul in my life that burns my steak than a lying cheating douchebag.
We all have priorities… and I can thank him directly for the gift of reminding me how important mine are.
Thank you, Nathan. Truly. Happy Birthday… jerk… perhaps someone should have warned you that I don’t just get mad… I get ridiculously even.
We’re good. I’m all set. You can go ahead and kick rocks all day for your birthday.
Or go round up a new victim…hopefully one smart enough to Google you……….
because the gift I’ve given you this morning, is truth.
I’m sorry you don’t feel satisfied with exceptional. I’m sorry amazing isn’t good enough for you. I hope you find what it is you’re looking for, and I’m thankful it isn’t me.
Good luck, God bless, Peace out…. and Happy Birthday.
Douchebag.
Happy Birthday, Donor.
Take it away… Miss Babymama….
♥-♥-♥
I really should be the first person to wish you a … hmm…… birthday?
Perhaps in the hopes that someday you’ll actually be responsible? Or in keeping with the fact we have a baby together…
Let’s face it. We all know what a lying cheating scumbag you are. You lured me. Trapped me, then tried to destroy me.
You thought you got the best of me…but you never will.
The biggest thing for me was that someone finally called you out and exposed you. Eventually, you will leave, just as I predicted. You will die old and alone or you’ll wrap your truck around a tree because of that gallon of vodka you can’t stop drinking every two days.
God willing? You don’t hurt someone else in the process.
Sure… you’ll move on to another city and continue to hurt other women, if you don’t seek medical help for the deep rooted mental issues you have, but at least you will never be able to walk around 0ur town without being recognized as the weasel you are (Jenni handed you who you are- finally.)
You thought what they were saying about you two years ago was bad… clearly you were wrong. Clearly she knows you better.
But.
I think you underestimate me the most. You think I’m scared of you. You always have.
Maybe I was at one point… but…
Something changed in me the day a beautiful angel was placed in my arms. My maternal instinct kicked in. I knew from then on that you could never hurt either of us ever again.
You threaten the cub… and the mama bear will eat you alive. Go ahead… try me!
My mom told me I should pray for you. She still believes in the power of prayer for a soul’s conversion but I think that deadness in your eyes is because you don’t have a soul.
You have demons… and you should… because you created them. You have a dark side you foster….
It took over your body some time ago and consumed everything good inside you.
Here’s my birthday gift to you.
I bet if I looked hard enough, and me being Catholic and all… I could find a priest who still performs exorcism rites, to perform one on you.
I figured since you like to bitch and moan about how no one gets you anything good for your birthday, this gift is special, and tailor made just for you…
You’re welcome… and you need it. It’s better than money or booze… both of which will only flush your existence further down the toilet.
It’s come full circle and you have been exposed for the disgusting phony you really are. No matter where you go or what you do? It will haunt you. You really are all alone in the world. The ex’s have bonded together for life…
There’s nothing you can do to hurt us anymore. We know you. We know what you’re capable of.
But most of all? We know what you can’t do. We know about your lack of respect, your inability to maintain and the completely devastating lie of your military non-career.
So I give you Jesus. I give you faith. I give you all the love I have left by way of our daughter. I give you up. I give you away.
I let you go…. with a million watt smile on my beautiful face.
I’m finally gaining bits and pieces of my spirit back that you so so forcefully tried to crush out of me. I’ve been kicked back a few steps because of you… and without you, pushed in a slightly different direction.
But I’m on my feet and I’m still standing…. and you can never take that away from me.
Happy Birthday, you ridiculously horrible choice,
Thank you for the DNA… because all you’ve ever amounted to is a fantastic donor.
If only you didn’t over-salt everything… you could almost be as perfect a chef as you are a douche bag.
Like this:
Happy Birthday Dirtbag, Part 1.
I’ve never had a guest blogger before… but this week calls for a few exceptions. I’m posting letters to Nathan, in honor of his birthday, tomorrow, from the women he’s had the nerve to hurt.
I’m going to have a damn hard time comparing to this one. Pop some corn. Put up your feet and…
ENJOY!!!! This is delicious reading… Mrs. First… you have outdone yourself.
♥ – ♥ – ♥
Dear Nathan:
Lucky me, I can’t say that you ruined my life. But you sure as hell f***ed up a large enough portion of it that thinking about you still makes me sick.
Where to begin?! Well, I guess I should begin with the fact that I’m a nice girl. I was raised in a nice family, by nice parents who didn’t mess me up or make me crazy. I have nice friends. I have class, manners, and style – something you always told me you loved about me. I love books, classical music, art, food, wine, beautiful clothes. I dated nice boys before you, boys who sincerely loved and cared about me, boys that are still my friends today. They can’t believe what a douchebag you turned out to be. I’m pretty sure that given the opportunity, they would happily band together to wipe you off the face of the planet.
I loved you more than you loved me from the very beginning. Being a “nice” girl, my dream was to get married, to have a family, to have a doting husband who loved me more than anything in the world. I dreamed of aprons, babies, and pearls. When you walked in to my life, you promised me all of those things and more. I ate it up, I believed you, I fell for you. Hook, line, and sinker.
You introduced me to your parents. You brought me little gifts. You took me out for fabulous dinners. You “celebrated” every day that we were together, just because. You were among the best boyfriends I’ve ever had… for a few weeks. Then, it started happening, a little at a time. Little ugly nagging flags, popping up at every turn in the road.
Other people warned me about you – including your ex – but I gallantly defended you, indignant over the mistreatment you convinced me you’d received.
You slept with other women from the beginning, while telling me I was your one and only forever. You flirted with other women in front of me. I knew you were a cheater, even though I wanted desperately to believe your crazy stories about needy friends, long lost cousins, and little sisters. You disappeared for days at a time, and I would go sleepless for days – crying, calling police stations and hospitals looking for you. You hid your phone, your life, your lies. You gave me jewelry and compliments, preyed on my vulnerability, my innocence, and my love for you. You stole the beautiful and exquisite ability I once possessed to give of myself joyfully and freely, and my ability to trust others – sadly, that part of me is gone forever..
If I put in writing all of the times you lied to me, I would have to kill a forest of trees in order to acquire enough paper. So I’ll just cut it short and say that by the time you were finished mind-fucking me, I was broken. Yup. Me. An educated, strong, bright, lovely girl – broken by a piece of shit like you. I’m so ashamed that I let you do that to me for so long. I’m so ashamed that I believed every bit of poison out of your mouth. You said that if I left you, I’d be ruined. No one would want me. My family would disown me. My friends would all take your side. That you would destroy my life.
If I recounted all of the sick and perverted things you made me do “because I loved you”, I would hang my head in shame, even through the anonymity of this letter. If I told the truth about what I found on your computer and phone when you finally drove me to madness, two-dollar hookers would blush and squirm in their seats. If I made public all of the horrible things you have said to me, names you have called me, things you have done to me, you would take Casey Anthony’s place as most wanted person in America… and that bitch murdered her kid.
You are the lowest form of human being in the world. You are a classless, alcoholic, nymphomaniac, drug addict, bi-polar freak of nature that deserves to be standing on a corner of the freeway begging for people’s spare change. You know how your mom was a homeless drug addict? How she gave you away because she loved heroin more than she loved you?! How she fell off the face of the planet and probably died in a dumpster with a dirty needle shoved into her arm? Those “genetics” can be a bitch, honey… I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it?
You lie about being a soldier?! You don’t deserve to live in this country. How can you so blatantly disrespect the men and women who are defending your sleazeball right to live in safety and liberty?! Let me give you a short lesson, easy for your small brain – getting Army tattoos and ordering some gear online makes you a psychopath, not a soldier. And puh-leeze. If you’re going to lie, at least make it believable… the last time I checked, military service records were public record. (Oh yeah – and I’m pretty sure there’s a sign at every recruiting office clearly stating that there isn’t room for men who have their head permanently affixed to their assholes in the Ranger program.)
It is only a matter of time before your lies catch up with you. Pretty soon you will have nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. No one defending you. You will look back on all of the perfect women you threw to the curb for exposing you as the liar and cheat that you are, and you’ll wish that you were dead. We were all out of your league from day one.
Lucky you – we will always be lurking behind you, trying to protect other unsuspecting women from your venom. Know what’s funny?! In sequential order, we all tried to protect one another from you. We’ve compared notes, shared stories. Bonded for life over your unbelievable nerve. We’ve learned two things: 1.) you’re pretty damn un-creative, sweetheart…, and 2.) we’re an army. It’s you… against all of us.
Yup. That’s right. We will find a way to let your friends, family, employers, and girlfriends know exactly what a disgusting piece of crap you are.
So start polishing up your arsenal of lies, soldier. You’re officially at war.
….With that being said, keep reading, you snaggletooth asshole. Because I want to tell you what I’ve never had the chance to say to your face….
You didn’t ruin my life. I cried when you were finally gone – cried all the tears of humiliation, anger, hurt, and heartbreak that you’d made me hold in for a thousand days. Those friends you said would take your side?! They all rallied around me, wiping my tears, throwing darts at your picture, and lovingly picking up the pieces of my life.
And guess what? After you, I got a great job. I got a killer education. I got a boyfriend that I fell in love with for being honest, loving, and true. I got a new life, a new start. I got everything.
Thanks. It’s the best gift anyone’s ever given me – and it wasn’t even my birthday.
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday to you,
You smell like a weasel,
Now everyone knows you’re one, too.
Happy birthday, Mr. Perfectpants – From me to you.
Love,
x.
