I’ve been busy with my new boyfriend Dane. Too busy laughing my ass off to think of something creative to write. Stuff like this has been keeping me occupied:

(Strong language, NSFW)

For the other’s not interested in Dane Cook, a post from the archives:

Queen of Diversion

originally posted April 11, 2007

Mornings in our house prove to be a challenge. As I hate getting up, and dear hubs is an early riser we constantly bicker over the fact that I am a notorious snoozer. The snooze button is my dealer; I am addicted. One any given day, I will hit snooze three times. THREE. TIMES. This drives Mike to the brink of insanity since the first one wakes him then he’s up for the day; not to mention the fact I have it set for about a half hour before I have to get up.

Since he’s on course for work until mid-May he’s actually getting up at the same time as me, (instead of being out the door while I pound away on my snooze button), which definitely is a cause for more conflict in the mornings. For the past week we’ve been feuding over my addiction which as left me to one (sometimes two) hits of the button.
Today I was so sure I would try to get up at the first sound of the annoying - beeeeep, beeeeep, beeeeep, just to appease my ever-loving husband.

I didn’t succeed.

After the first one, I tried so hard to get the next one before he stirred. As it went off I started hitting the headboard trying to turn off the alarm, to my dismay the damn thing wasn’t turning off, at that point I realized: Dumbass, you’re hitting the headboard. The clocks over there.

I got up and headed for a shower. Mike soon to follow. Bitter. Bitter as all hell. Like he’s been everyday for the past week.

I will say, it’s been nice that we can have a shower together in the mornings again though (with no interruptions). Today, may have been a different story.

I sluggishly climbed into the shower while Mike was cursing me from his perch (on the can). Why can’t I just get up like a normal person? This fuckin’ snooze button has to stop. I’m going to take away your alarm clock. Blah, blah, blah-fuckity-blah.

While he went on and on I persuaded myself to make an effort at some foreplay, this would all go away (for the time being) if I just did something - anything, to redirect his attention for the snooze button to …. his penis.
He joined me in the shower, still chattering on and on about the fucking snooze button, so I made my move. I slowly reached down and touched it. Touched. It. He looked at me - and. stopped. talking. HE STOPPED!! So I continued a bit, but (faster then I thought he would) he clued into my intentions and turned to get past me; a bit flustered he started to bring up the alarm clock. Again.

Then it happened.

He stepped on the edge of the shower curtain and fell, bringing down the entire shower curtain rod with him.

There I stood, stark naked, water trickling everywhere as he was bent over, ass in the air, bracing himself against the side of the tub, the shower curtain, in a bunged up mess on the bathroom floor.

My initial reaction was to point and laugh, but I held it together long enough to ensure that he wasn’t hurt and to get the curtain rod in it’s rightful place. Then I bust a gut laughing. Oh, did I laugh! Thankfully, he thought it was pretty fuckin’ hilarious too. Though a little off target, I completed my mission.

The morning conversation was not that of my inability to get my ass out of bed anymore.

But that I tried to kill him in the shower by pushing him out of my way.

Sweet success.

You never really know what you had until it’s gone. It’s so unbelievably true; when relationships die it’s extremely painful. My two best friends and I were inseparable during high school I even lived with both of them for a short time when things were rough at home. We experienced many of our firsts together, but when we separated at the time of going off to college things changed. Our lives headed in different directions and as much as we tried to stay together, it just wasn’t happening. The two of them remained inseparable while I was left entirely pushed aside. Though our relationship had gone through some serious bumps, one of them was still my Maid of Honour when Mike and I wed. Though, when she married a couple months later and I was expecting Carter, things changed.

That phone call and the one that followed, I’ll never forget. My heart was broken and I knew then I had lost the friend I considered a sister. When she announced that she was getting married, I too shared with her that I was expecting. We were happy for each other and giddy with anticipation as we discussed our futures, her wedding plans and our anticipated baby names. Just a few days later, she called me to discuss wedding stuff where she mentioned to me that she now didn’t want me to stand up as her Bridesmaid because I was going to be seven months pregnant at the time of the wedding. Being that it was in July she assumed that I would not be able to tolerate the amount of standing and walking that would take place.

As she tried to convince me that this was the best thing for me, I was weeping. I was so disappointed and heart broken as I knew that this was where our relationship was ending and there was nothing I could do about it.

A few months later, after her wedding, when I was in the hospital after giving birth, she called to wish us best, which I was grateful for. But after that I rarely heard from her; she’s never met Carter. Our relationship is very much a thing of the past and I am pretty certain that it’s not ever going to be the same.

It’s so painful. Heart wrenchingly painful.

I never thought that I would really have friends like that again. You know the ones? Where you can share absolutely everything and not even think twice about what comes out of your mouth? The ones that don’t judge you if you’re unshowered, teeth aren’t brushed and can laugh with until you cry?

That was until the weekend. When I finally met them while we traveled to BlogHer Reach Out in Boston.

This weekend I laughed until I cried so much it still hurts. My heart aches now that we’ve gone back to our regular routine, and I feel as though a part of me has left with them and I’m dying to see them again.

I’m looking for a swing jacket.

Okay, I’m looking for a couple of them. Denim, wool, canvas…

Yes, they’re everywhere lately, but not when you’re pushing plus size. Those jackets? Those are difficult to find. I just don’t know that there is a flattering version of this jacket for larger midriff women. Every one that I’ve tried on seems to increase my size about twofold. I am on a mission and I will not fail.

OMG!! Overstock.com is now shipping to Canada! I nearly jumped off the couch when I saw that while googling for the above picture.

*ahem*

So while perusing the malls today looking for said coveted jacket I wandered into a couple plus size stores; checked out a couple pairs of pants and some shirts while I searched and I was shocked to see the price of the clothes. In comparison: a layering t-shirt from Old Navy? About 12 bucks. A similar shirt from the plus sized store? 25 bucks. Granted the stores may be owned by different chains and have different suppliers, blah, blah, blah.. but these shirts were not that different aside from the price.

I came home and vented to Mike about the cost of the clothes and how it’s not fair.

His response?

It’s expensive to be fat.

*blink*

[stare]

*blink, blink*

Well, more material makes the clothes more expensive. We eat more food and our health sucks.

*blink*

Oh, the logic.

EDITED TO ADD: I don’t think he was really referring to me and my fat. Just fat in general.

:::

So, Friday morning - bright and freakin’ early - though, I’ll probably STILL be up from the night before, my girl Karen and Double Agent Girl will be swinging by my pad to pick up Hudson and I and then head out on a road trip to Boston for the BlogHer Reach Out in our swanky sponsored Saturn Hybrid Vue from GM. We’ve planned to race coordinated a safe and quick journey from here to Boston and hope to get there just in time for dinner with our other girls Motherbumper and HerBadMother! who’ve got the Aura.

I’ll let you know who wins the race. I’m banking on us, though those two mothers are quite badass, we may have our work cut out for us.

Good thing we’re travelling in a hybrid or my fat ass just may have brought down our fuel efficiency.

Always have your own money; it’s important to have that independence. That’s what both my step-mother and my mother taught me, ingrained in me. It stuck with me, as it should, that I should be able to care for myself should something happen to my marriage leaving me to fend for myself: to raise my children with little (or no) support, financially.

Because of those lessons, I keep my own personal bank account, I have my own RRSPs (retirement fund) and I make my own money.

Before I continue, I, in no way am trying to belittle those who have made alternative arrangements, those who have decided to live entirely from one bank account and whom have given up their personal aspirations of a career to raise their children, because I have no doubt that sacrifices have been made and they (you?) are definitely contributing to the family. There is no question.

(Huge run-on sentence, sorry; but did I manage to use ‘whom’ in the correct context? I have NEVER been able to use that word correctly!)

And though I have my own money, I have made sacrifices for my family (ie: Maternity Leave) which has decreased my personal income, in turn has left me more dependent on my husband’s income to buy clothing and things for myself. I do not feel guilt for buying them, for treating myself once and a while. Like yesterday: yesterday I went for a badly needed haircut, a new style and dye. I don’t keep a regular regime for my hair care, I go when I can and because it’s rather pricey, I try hard to stretch the time between visits - like four to six months!

I came home really excited about my new do, most notably, gained a little self-confidence with the drastic change. (Of bangs! OMG!) And waited patiently for him to come home so I could show it off a little.

(Ah, delusional. Men don’t care about new hair. I know.)

He came in the living room and just looked at me. It’s different. You’re definitely a blonde hun. Dark doesn’t really work for you. Wha? Definitely a blonde? That’s what you think of my hair? Fine. I can handle that. Whatever, you’re a man, which means you don’t know shit about hair and fashion.

(Ya, I was a little disappointed with his reaction. But whatever.)

The kicker?

How much did you waste on that? Well thank you Prince Charming! Aren’t you fabulous!?

He then tied into me about wasting money and how I didn’t need to spend that much on my hair. It’s just hair.

(Okay. I can handle that. But then…)

I don’t work my ass of for 15 hours a day for you to spend it all on your hair.

Um. Wha? What just happened there?

Granted he has been working a lot. I will give him that, but in no way will I tolerate him telling me that he works all those hours and I am just frivolously spending his hard earned money!

I have held a job since I was 15 years old. I have worked to pay my way for all these years and I have sacrificed forwarding my career in order to start a family and have children. For him to sit there and belittle me as though he were my keeper struck a cord to say the least. It struck a cord indeed.

Woman sacrifice so much in for their families - some men, yes - but more often than not, it is the woman who says goodbye to the career and work life to stay home and rear their children. It is us who give up the education, the paycheque, OUR BODIES!!!, the adult interaction to care for our children, our homes, the groceries, the laundry, the bills, the cleaning, the gardening and whatever else may need tending to.

We leave behind the satisfaction of a job well done, the promotions, the lively (haha!) board meetings, the lunches with co-workers, the stimulation; we leave all this for the vomit, the spilled milk, the dirty diapers, tantrums and piles of laundry. And for what? The satisfaction of knowing that we are caring for our offspring and our husbands? Puhlease.

I would maybe enjoy it a little more should he even acknowledge the fact that I’ve sacrificed so much for this family. For us. For him.

But instead I’m told that I am wasting our money on myself!? What a kick in the proverbial nuts!

Need I remind him (and you) that while I sit here with my two boys, I am being paid. Sure, it’s not my full salary but I am being somewhat financially compensated by the government to spend this year home (as well as designing to try and compensate for the salary cut I’ve taken). Yet, I feel as though I am viewed as a slacker, a leech, a nothing.

I can’t pinpoint the reason he feels the need to belittle me this way. I don’t know how I can break through to him that I am still being paid to sit her on my ass and eat bonbons while I watch soap operas - because that’s what he thinks I do all day. When it came time to start my Maternity Leave I offered him the possibility to take Paternity Leave (where he can stay home for a couple months while I return to work). He outright refused stating that he makes much more than me and we can’t afford for him to stay home. Resorting to belittling me AGAIN! as an excuse not to stay home? I don’t know.

I am just beyond irritated that he views my being home as though he is given full right to dictate my spending habits as well as treat me as though I am inferior to him because I am not working. Call it jealousy, or envy, whatever. I just know it’s not right, or fair.

I am so beyond pissed and I just can’t get past how fuckin‘ mad I am at him for treating me this way!