Who knew that Dooce believed in Tuff-love? She always seemed more… Oh, nevermind. She seems like an ice queen. The metaphor doesn’t hold. I tried.
Internet, have we talked about this yet? Do we have a “Heather and Matt sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g” situation on our screens?
Now, I don’t want to get a “cease and desist” letter here, but Heather and Matt seem to want us to talk about them, blowing each other @kisses on Twitter. I’ll bet ol’ Doocey is sitting on top of the world working her puppet strings and laughing maniacally. Or maybe manically. You know that Hamilton woman.
This fixation on would-be Internet Toxic Best Friend-types is clearly about me being a child of divorce who cries over vintage Star Wars posters. Here I go, projecting my issues onto what equates to a reality TV star on the internet.
Dooce and I had babies about the same time (her: Marlo, me: Viva), so I discovered Mommy Blogs via her. She was the most famous mother, writer, and neuroatypical individual I knew of (this was before a certain giant metal chicken played a game of ding-dong-ditch with Jenny Lawson’s too-cheap-to-buy-new-towels husband). She was my first glimpse into what internet writer fame could be. My first successful post was entitled “Bitches I Hate” and she was a featured bitch.
So, when GOMI drew my attention to an Instagram picture of Heather Dooce ARMSTRONG and her new alleged-piece Matt Tuff, I wanted to shank a bitch. This? This is what you threw your marriage in the garbage for? To be free to pursue someone like this guy? THIS guy?
(Thanks Dlisted.com via Tosh.O)
Okay, that’s not really Matt Tuff, but you get the idea.
In the Instagram photo of Her Dooceness and MattBroChill, Heather wears the expression a woman only sports after 1) vigorous satisfying coitus, 2) cashing a huge check. Page views are money; therefore, one will lead to the other. Win-win here.
Will Matt move to Salt Lake, or will this unmitigated narcissist make the children fly for hours every time they get to see their daddy? Whatever is most convenient for her, no doubt. I continue to mourn the death of the Armstrong marriage. It’s like they’re part of my group of friends from college. At first it’s barbecues with tons of booze and hook-ups. A few years later people pair off and get married. In the next phase, you shell out baby shower gifts, then spend Saturdays watching kids swing bats at pinatas. The next inevitable phase is the divorces.
For all I know, Jon is an insufferable jackass and Doocey is the good guy. I’m nothing but a slaggy whore to him. I know it. Who can blame the guy? When it’s my turn to get raked over the internet coals, I doubt Odie will feel any warmth for the bitch holding the bellows.
Why won’t Heather and Jon talk about it for our voyeuristic ecstacy? She welcomed us into her life and started a genre, or at least took that genre to a different level. Everything I do here is possible because of what she did. We’re all standing on the shoulders of Mormons. Now, though, when the story gets titillating, we’re cut off. Just like that. Cold-blooded.
Or they both signed an agreement that they wouldn’t blog about the divorce or about dating. Ostensibly, it’s to protect the children, but I suspect the real motive folds and goes in a wallet. Neither is allowed to make money off of the salacious details of Dooce getting her groove back. She would naturally want to kill a tell-all about what a nightmare it was to live with Dooce, the milk throwing mommy blogger. His counter-move:”If I can’t write about it, neither can YOU.” The only hole in this theory that I can see is that her money is his money. Therefore, it’s safe to wildly speculate that the divorce settlement was a one-time pay out and includes no future earnings. Have to sell the house, though. Turns out the house that blogging built is a house of cards built on sand. Oh, shit, I went and mixed my metaphors. See what you’ve done to me,
God, I need to call my therapist.
I can’t help but feel resentful toward Matt Tuff (in a legally acceptable way). He’s mommy’s new boyfriend and he’s flushing my reconciliation fantasies down the toilet. A toilet that’s no longer clogged because Heather and Jon will never shit in it together again.