Driving home from work I turned up the radio to escape the day. One of my recent favourite songs came on – Please Don’t Leave Me by Pink. I cranked it louder and began singing at the top of my lungs.

Then.

I really heard the words.

The words which I’ve heard before yet didn’t really think about until that moment.

I don’t know if I can yell any louder
How many time I’ve kicked you outta here?
Or said something insulting?

That Lump began to form in my throat. Unable to swallow it down, my eyes welled up with tears.

I sang louder in the hopes of drowning out my thoughts. The thoughts of how I’ve treated my husband. The thoughts of how I’ve battered him with my words repeatedly; digging deep to find something – anything – I could say that would garner some sort of reaction.

To hurt him.

How did I become so obnoxious?
What is it with you that makes me act like this?
I’ve never been this nasty

For as long as I can remember I have verbally assaulted him whenever we’ve had an argument. It was three and a half years into our relationship when I first threw something at him fully intended to harm him. Though I haven’t thrown anything in years, words are still my weapon of choice.

I forgot to say out loud how beautiful you really are to me
I cannot be without, you’re my perfect little punching bag
And I need you, I’m sorry

I’ve told him to leave.

I’ve told him I didn’t know why we were together.

I’ve said that if it weren’t for the children, I would have left a long time ago.

Can’t you tell that this is all just a contest?
The one that wins will be the one that hits the hardest
But baby I don’t mean it
I mean it, I promise

I don’t have a clue why I say these things; why I want to cause him heartache. I don’t know why I think hurting him would make things better; better for whom? I know I don’t feel better after it’s done, and I’m damn sure he doesn’t feel all that great. So why? Why do I feel the need to belittle and degrade him?

Please don’t leave me
I always say how I don’t need you
But it’s always gonna come right back to this
Please, don’t leave me

It’s a two way street. We’re both guilty of verbally assaulting each other but I can’t account for his reasons, only my own – none of which I have.

I’ve often wondered if we were together for all the wrong reasons. We began dating on a whim in college. It was summer break, there was only a small group of us remaining behind to work or complete extra course throughout the summer semester. Mike and I began hanging out more frequently and our friendship quickly crossed boundaries moving rapidly towards an exclusive relationship. From there we became engaged; bound. Though we waited another five years before we actually got married it sometimes still feels as though we rushed things.

I’ve been with him since I was eighteen. I’ve only known my adult life with him, and though I’ve grown, sometimes I feel as if he thinks he’s still living the bachelor life and we’re still in college. Much of our relationship was based on sexual attraction; the older we’ve gotten, the busier our lives have gotten, the more that has changed. It seems as though instead of learning to love each other past the sexual chemistry, we’ve struggled to know each other at all. We’re stuck in limbo.

Please don’t leave me
I always say how I don’t need you
But it’s always gonna come right back to this
Please, don’t leave me

I feel as though now I am just a mother figure for him to rely on.

Remind him to pay his tickets.

Make the phone calls.

Book the appointments.

Pay the bills.

Pick up the kids.

Make the dinner.

Wash the laundry.

Put the clothes away.

Make the bed.

I feel like he gets a free ride.

He will argue to the death that that’s not the case; though, I cannot help but feel as though I carry a significant amount of the responsibilities in this relationship.

It makes me bitter.

I resent that while I was home caring for the kids he was able to leave the house for the day.

For the record: I am extremely, undeniably happy that I had that opportunity and would never change that.

I resent that he would call me at the end of his day solely to find out what was on the menu for dinner. I resent that he would come home and comment that I got to be home all day doing nothing while he had to work: that he had to go to work and bust his ass all day while I got to be home – doing nothing but sit on the computer all day. His digs have left me rather indignant.

Maybe he is bitter that I was home, I don’t know.

Now that I’m back to work it’s been a never ending battle of wills as I fight to divvy the household duties while I feel he fights to keep his child-like freedom.

I think it’s played a considerable part in how I’ve been struggling and so miserable as of late.

:::

The other night I blew up over his caulking job on the kitchen sink. We fought. I yelled and said everything and anything I could to hurt him once again.

Over caulking, people.

Then as The Guilt set in I decided it was about time I tried to put into words how I’ve been feeling.

I told him how I’ve felt let down and that when I married him I thought I was gaining a partner, not a child. How we’re supposed to be a team and it feels as though we’ve been on opposite sides for so long we don’t even know how to support each other. We don’t know how to be there for one another.

I *know* there’s more beyond just the chemistry. There has to be. I know I love him. I know he loves me. We’ve been through so much and still depend on each other greatly, but – shouldn’t we have found that something by now? He says we have it but I am so filled with anger lately that I just can’t see.

I think he could be right.

Being back to work full time is busy people. Busy with a capital fuckin’ B.

Not only have I been busting my butt trying not to get in trouble again for not carrying my own weight (still hurt by that, by the way), I am slowing becoming aware of how much I’ve taken on and how it’s affecting my family and health (Hello Benylin? I LOVE YOU LIKE A FAT KID LOVES CAKE.).

Both kids went for a sleep over at their grammie and gramps’ house Saturday night. Mike and I had big plans for a night out on the town.

Okay, so dinner out was the only plan but whatever.

We went out for dinner together and then promptly home to get our sweats on and crash on the couch. Flicking through the channels, staring at the screen as each scene went by, blurring into one show. I could feel the fatigue taking over, I finally gave up and headed to bed. 10pm on a Saturday night when both my kids were away. Fuck, I’m old.

Lame Saturday night, yes. But! Seriously? Nothing compares to waking at noon for the first time in five years. Not only did I get to sleep in, but it was peaceful, restful, and rejuvenating. Exactly what I needed. All these late nights plugging away on The Business (which, by the way will be totally remodeled and renamed in the near future! Stay tuned!) accompanied by the early mornings (5am y’all! I detest 5am) has wreaked havoc on my sanity.

And apparently I didn’t have enough stress in my life at the moment because now I’ve decided to add house hunting to the list.

You heard it right. We’re now on the market for purchasing our very first home and I couldn’t be more excited, stressed, overwhelmed and anxious about it all. I think I’ve become very picky about what I want (I blame HGTV) and MUST have in my new house. Needless to say, I believe it’s going to be a long process.

A very long process.

Because…

I’ve decided I want a pool.

I NEED a pool.

I MUST HAVE a pool.

Not too far fetched, but definitely narrows the searches.

Today one of the first homes we saw had 3+1 bedrooms (another must have for visiting family and friends as well as office space for The Business) and a pool. Gorgeously redone and very modern, it was The House, but had already three offers and one accepted conditionally upon financing. Sold as far as I’m concerned. Totally unfair, but this is what I’ve welcomed into my life. Stress, stress and more stress.

We haven’t even gotten close to the bidding, counter offering, and BIDDING WARS.

I think my hair will either be a few shades of white and grey or completely fallen out by that time.

But dammit. I better have a pool.

Though, if I don’t have a pool, I suppose I could get my new pool boy working on something else…..

His tan people! His TAN on his bare bum.

UPDATED:

The pool gods hate me.

Mike was laid off this morning.

Kissing my new house goodbye…..

Fucksakes.

The House of Me is awaiting the word to see whether or not we should officially be under quarantine. Mike fears he has swine flu. With flaming angry pink eye, cough wheezing and general shittiness, he of course believes he is on his death bed.

I am the only relatively healthy one at the moment, *touch fake MDF wood looking product* which doesn’t bode well for my sanity. Kids are on the mend but Hudson is still teething and Carter… is… well… Carter. Man that kid is high strung happy and moody active. He’s so much like his father I fear for his future partner just love him so much.

Mike called form work yesterday about a billion times to tell me he thought he had pink eye. His eye was oozing and crusty and red. Tell tales signs of the conjunctivitis. And that there my friends, is ALL kindsa hotness. I told him that he likely has pink eye and to stop touching it. When he came home he quickly pulled me aside, out of view of the kids and pulled off his sunglasses to show me a flaming red, angry, pussy* eye leaking and definitely oozing. Pink. Eye.

Eating lunch? Dammit, I always do that!

Afraid of possibly scarring Carter for life he refused to take his glasses off in front of the kid which prompted a million questions asking why daddy was wearing his sunglasses in the house. Mike thought that rather than telling him that his eye hurt and leave it at that, it would be better to concoct this story about how it’s too bright and he needs his glasses to see. Which, I HATE. Why the fuck make up a story when you can just give a very simple dumbed down version of the truth.

That’s how I deal with Mike most days. You think he would have caught on by now?

I immediately corrected him because Carter doesn’t need to have these dumbass stories created for his benefit.

Unless it’s about Santa, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy or unicorns because those? Those are awesome magical beings – like Hobbits – and children need to have a little magic in their lives, not stupid stories about how it’s too bright in the house and Daddy needs to have on his sunglasses. I’ll bet if I let him keep going he would have begun singing some Corey Hart and we don’t need that shit at the dinner table, people.

Mike hemmed and hawed through dinner about whether or not he should have his eye looked at. Buddy wouldn’t even take off his figgin’ sunglasses for fear of scaring the ever loving crap out of his four year old, but thought it was well enough not to warrant a visit to the doctor? BRILLIANT.

I convinced him that Yes, his eye must be looked at; so he begrudgingly went to the doctor and after an hour called me to say that this old geezer doctor at the walk-in clinic passed by his room twice to see other patients. Then, when he finally saw the guy, he was told that he had strep throat. Mike continued ranting that he was never going to that fuckin’ clinic again because the geezer doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. Apparently the doctor didn’t even look at his eye and only swabbed for strep but, people. You didn’t need to get up close to that thing to see that it’s badly diseased. Fuck, I could tell as he was walking up the driveway.

Eventually I had to cut him off to ask if it was possible that he did indeed have strep because he did sleep most of the weekend; and when he wasn’t sleeping, he was complain about being tired having a sore throat.

His answer? Ya, I guess.

The doctor deduced he had pink eye IN CONJUNCTION with strep throat.

NIICE.

So he did what any sane person with a swollen eye full of infectious disease AND possible strep throat would do – he went to WORK. (He sits in a crane all day long alone, he’s not worried about spreading it. *rolleyes*) About forty minutes ago he called me to see if he should go to the doctor to see if he has swine flu.

Apparently we’ve gone from denial to self-medicating.

I just don’t have the heart to tell him that it’s my fault and I had sharted on his pillow.

Now? My eyes? They’re itchy.

But I don’t have pink eye.

I don’t have pink eye.

I don’t have pink eye.

I don’t have pink eye.

Please, don’t let me have pink eye.

I just haven’t had enough coffee today. That’s it. Coffee. I need coffee.

________________________________

*Who knew there wasn’t a pural to pus and that it wasn’t pussy. I was writing at work and had to hurry since lunch time recess was coming to a close. Pussy suits him so it stays.

So I was spouting off last week about missed Mother’s Day, unacknowledged birthdays and then he goes and does something like this.

I feel like a total ass. The Ass to End All Asses.

Yesterday was my birthday. I’m a whole 28 years of wisdom, beauty and smarts. *cough*BULLSHIT*cough* I was happy and excited because my step-mom and I were going for breakfast and a massage in the morning. So I got out a cute little spring-ish dress and a cute necklace as I got ready. Seeing as it was My Special Day I thought I would hype it up since I didn’t expect so much as a “happybirthday” mumbled in my general direction if it was even remembered.

As I got dressed Mike started giving me the gears about why I has to get gussied up to go for breakfast and a massage.

There had not been ANY acknowledgment of said birthday by this point and even though I knew that every. single. year. was the same damn thing I couldn’t help but still be put off.

But honestly, my step-mom always looks so put together I wasn’t about to head out the door for a morning with her in my yoga pants and un-made-up (yes, that’s a word. Ask Dr. Google.) So I put on a damn dress. Sue me.

Still not a happy birthday even though when Carter asked me why I was wearing a dress and I told him that it was my Special Day. So I did what any pissed off wife would do – twittered about his lack of caring.

I forgot about everything and went out with my step-mom. I wasn’t going to let him ruin yet another birthday for me. We set out for breakfast and hit up a huge L’Oreal Professional sale where we snagged as much product as we could possibly shove into a bag for a mere fifty bucks. I swear, we walked away with more than three HUNDRED dollars of stuff for 50 BUCKS!

Then after our massages we headed back to my house where, waiting for me, was a few of my favourite people in the whole entire world – assumed neglectful husband included.

That bugger had been working on a surprise party for me over the past few weeks, and the guy that can usually never get anything past me, got this one right under my nose.

(And I’ve never been so grateful that I actually decided I didn’t want to be frumpy. Because seriously? That would have been suckage.)

But that wasn’t the end of the surprises because he really out did himself this year. Wrapped and waiting was a brand new MacBook Pro. I was on the verge of tears I was so excited, which I think weirded out my family just a little. Only Karen really got just how excited I was about it.

Dude,  I have a mother fuckin’ MacBook Pro now!!

Ahem. Now I just have to learn how to use it.

Oh, and I apologized profusely to my sick husband who threw a party and crashed like nothing I’ve seen before. He was so burnt out, feverish and all around sick that he had to escape to lie down for a while even before guests had left. Poor bugger.

Even though he may pretend that birthdays just don’t matter I think deep down he’s really a sucker for making me happy; and really? I can’t complain about that.

Me: Hey, Hudson’s fever hasn’t broken yet. It’s hovering around 103. Can you please get some baby medicine on your way home.

Mike: We’re on our way home now.

Me: Great. Can you stop please?

Mike: I’m getting lotto tickets and then we’ll be home.

Me: Great. Then please get Hudson some medication while you do that.

Mike: Um. I don’t know if they sell that at this store.

Me: Wha? You’re at a convience store. Yes they sell medication there. Go look for it.

Mike: Okay.

Me: Thank you! *sigh*

Mike: What am I looking for again?

Me: *blank stare, mouth gapping open* Are you fuckin’ kidding me?!

Mike: What did you want me to get?!

Me: Seriously? Are you fucking with me?

Mike: Whatever. What do you need?

Me: BABY. MEDICINE.

Mike: Oh yeah. Right. Okay.

:::

Honest to God, 45 minutes later he came through the door with medicine for a child two and up.

Hudson is 11 months.

I am not fuckin’ kidding you.

This is not a joke.

Please, do not laugh.

Today, our fourth anniversary is just like most days: me home with the kids while Mike’s working. Nothing different, just another day.

But it’s not like any other day really, because it’s today – four years ago that I was a blubbering idiot as I said my vows to love, honour and obey stand by him through think and thin.

We’ve had a lot of thin over the past year.

We’ve also had a lot of thick.

But no matter, we can always find out way back to each other.

Two years ago I wrote this:

Today while washing dishes together, Mike had a rather large knife in his hand and requested the dry towel I had hanging haphazardly over my shoulder; I leaned in for him to take it, but instead he just wiped the knife blade as the towel remained on my shoulder. I moved to avoid the shiny sharp edge that we strategically aimed towards my jugular.

He says: “Don’t worry, I wasn’t going to hurt you!”
To which I reply, “I know hon; just not keen to have a knife blade aimed at my throat.”
Mike then retorts: “I’d strangle you before I’d stab you. That way I can watch your life be slowly drained away- kinda like you do to me every. damn. day.”

Ah, the love.

To some it may seems shocking and hurtful that he’d say something like that to me, but that’s the way we’ve been since day one.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

It’s not often anymore that I get the urge to organize / redecorate but when it hits, it’s with a vengeance. Like when I have the thought that I want something done I have to see immediate results or I obsess about it until it’s done; and it can’t be done in stages, it’s all or nothing.

You can imagine how happy this makes my husband.

I’ve been telling him for weeks now how we need more storage in the living room. I insisted on an Expedit shelf from Ikea and he was all “I’m not buying that fuckin’ garbage. I HATE IKEA! Blargh!”, and I was all, “Fuck you, I’m getting the shelf.”

So last night we headed out to Ikea to get my new shelf and baskets for the movies and kids’ toys. Mike was all, “What’s with you and fuckin’ baskets?”, and I was all, “Fuck you, I’m getting baskets.”

I loaded up the cart with six of those $24.99 grass baskets and Mike was all, “Fuckin’ baskets.”, and I was all, “Fuck you, I’m getting the baskets. So suckit.”

Yes, that’s how we talk to each other all the time. It’s fun.

As we loaded the stuff in the car, I checked his inability to stack boxes handy work at tying down the hatch of the car. I kindly mentioned, “That’s not gonna fuckin’ stay idiot. Those boxes are going to fuckin’ fall out all over the damn road.”, and he was all “Fuck off, it’s fine. Just shut up and get in the car.”

We began driving home. The first red light, wouldn’t you know 2 of the three boxes fell from the back into traffic. Thankfully there was no one close behind us that I could send Mike out into traffic to gather them while I bitched from my passenger seat we could gather the boxes to the side of the road.

I was all, “See, I fuckin’ told you. You never listen to me and see what happens.”, to which he replied, “Fuck off already. Jesus. Do you ever shut the hell up?” then I said, “Jesus is dead so I’m pretty sure he’s quiet.”

Edited to Add: And I mean Jesus is dead in his human-life form. Of course.

Then I got the look. You know the one? Where if you say one more word their head is going to impode? So I walked away and let him deal with his colossal fuck up mistake because no one wants that shit all over their car.

Now I have this shelf and about 250 DVD’s that need a new home and the baskets – yes, those fuckn’ baskets – aren’t cutting it.

The picture is not all that clear, but what I am showing you is stacked DVD’s crammed into a beautiful $24.99 basket which I pretty much fought for and it’s not working the way I want.

Not to mention – do you see Teh Awesomness that is in this collection? Cobra? Cliffhanger? Booty Call? Catwoman? Dude’s got issues.

My movies that can be seen here: Dazed and Confused, Benny and Joon, Chasing Amy, Empire Records…  good right? I rest my case.

Edited to add: Mike read the post and insisted I share with you the fact that he does own some rather excellent movies I just pointed out the shitty ones – which is true because how fun is it making fun of good stuff?

So. I have four baskets FULL to the tits with DVD’s and more that need a home.

I don’t want them just ‘out’ because I hate – with the passion of a thousand suns – the look of row upon row of DVD’s.

That’s just me. Fucked in the head and difficult.

So when Mike gets home I have to try and convince him that he should put all his movies into a CD book and store the cases in boxes in the basement. That is unless you, Oh Wise Internets, have another storage idea for me.

Because otherwise, I fear he may rip off my head and shit down my throat.

I wouldn’t put it past him. Have you seen the way he talks to me!?

When Mike and I were just a young couple, freshly co-habiting, I didn’t care much about the filth that would accumulate in our apartment. So the washroom wasn’t cleaned this week? Meh. There’s always next week.

After living with my cleaning obsessed mother all my life, moving away to college was a nice breather. A break from the everyday regemented cleaning and complaining about cleaning and then, more of the cleaning. I let myself relax, revel in a little mess and sometimes even allow the dishes to sit in the sink overnight. Then overnight turned to every other night…

When we began our careers it was not uncommon for either of us to work 80 hours a week; sweeping, mopping, dusting and de-cluttering slowly fell to the wayside as we got lazier at night and our weekends.

Then we began having kids, starting a family and accumulating more and more adult responsibilities. Work, daycare pick-ups and drop-offs, dinners, baths, bedtimes… another baby… we have always lived in a state of flux. A state of flux that never really included proper cleaning habits.

(Not to say that we’re disgustingly dirty. I do wash dishes and clean the kitchen every. single. night., the laundry is washed regularly – even the bedding – my kids bathe often.)

(I mean the dusting, making the bed, picking up toys, sweeping, mopping, etc.)

As I gaze upon my fuckin’ pig stye of a house I pray for clean.

I long for tidy.

I want to bask in cleanliness.

I beg for a de-cluttered, clean, shiny and desirable space where I can be happy.

(It’s my mother’s fault. She made me crave cleanliness. You think a shrink would accept that excuse reason?)

The tumble weeds of dog and cat hair have overstayed their welcome. The cluttered, toy covered living room gives me hives just looking at it.

I fuckin’ HATE my kitchen floor with a passion. The kitchen being the go-to room of the house, it’s a very high traffic area since it’s so central. I can’t get through one day without heaps of shit accumulating on that floor.

I’ve tried to politely suggest that we behave as adults. Clean up after ourselves, organize and make this place a pleasant home so that I’m not constantly twitching when I enter a room to see the mass of fuckin’ mess that greets me.

Polite requests – which I’ve even used please! and thank you! – are constantly accused of being bitchy and naggy. Should I ask POLITELY that while he’s on his way to shovel the drive way, could he please take the garbage with him – it’s met with grunt, groans and accusations of nagging.

Nagging? You wanna see fuckin’ nagging?!

(I simply requested that he carry a bag outside with him. I’ve even removed and tied the fuckin’ thing, all he has to do is CARRY IT!)

I’ve been accused of nagging so often that I just stopped saying anything at all.

That plan didn’t work so well either. Holding everything in just about KILLED me. Seriously. Had I held in even one more thing about his inability to clean after himself.

* KABBOOOOOM! *

(That would have been the sound of my head exploding.)

For instance – and this is a typical thing that makes me want to stab, stab, kill, KILL! -  I *just* finish wiping the counters down after dinner. I almost have everything tidied and put away when he starts making his lunch.

Wouldn’t you know it. As soon as I turn my damn back there’s another mess? I don’t even think the counters have a chance to dry before they are littered with crumbs and packaging from making his lunch.

* HEAD EXPLODES! *

* KARRRRPLEEEWWYY * <— That’s my head exploding.

I’ve had this conversation with many people: my aunt, my step-mom, my sister-in-law, co-workers, friends – they all have the same stories.

It’s actually kinda comforting knowing we’re in this together. Knowing that mine (my man)  is not the only defected one.

But on the flip side makes me wonder… The. Hell?

Is there a gene missing? A chromosome that was overcooked? Karma?

I say forget Stem Cell Research. What’s really important is finding that fucked up mis-aligned, malformed, degenerate, stupid gene and FIX THAT MOTHERFUCKER!

Make a mandatory shot or something. A shot that all men, save the homosexuals and metrosexuals (because they’re meticulous and wonderful in their own right. I should have married a metrosexual. Seriously.), must take in order to fix these forever-childlike college boys into cleaning, helping around the house MEN.

We could ensure they take The Shot by taking away their fun activities – like Teh Sex, video games, poker, sports, etc. until The Shot has been administered and verified. And we can verify The Shot has been given by – well, I haven’t thought that far, maybe a a  CAPTCHA?  Or if that won’t work, I’m okay with a giant fuckin’ tattoo on their foreheads.

I presume this whole plan will never come to fruition. It shall go awry and I’ll be left with fuckin’ bread crumbs on my counter for life.

This rant has been brought to you by my vagina. Thanks to my vagina I have raging hormones which can’t always be controlled. Chocolate can only do so much people.

Maybe I need my own CAPTCHA?

I have always said, and will continue to say that men should be kept underground in a cave and used strictly for breeding purposes and sexual favours.

Now excuse me while I go dig a cave.