Work is crazy nuts right now. It’s great since only a few months ago we were on a work share program and now we’re hiring new people because work’s picked up so fast. I am a Project Coordinator for a small (under 20 people) company. I’ve been with the company since its inception, May, 2003, and though I have been with the company longer than anyone else, I feel as though I am the least important member of the team. Two maternity leaves have seemingly pushed me to the outer rings where some days I find myself feeling as though I am quickly moving closer to dismissal.

Upon my return from my latest maternity leave there were a number of new staff members and a completely re-invented policy and procedure program. I struggled with balancing my home and work life while learning about my company as though I were a new employee. It was a little demoralizing and hard at best.

For the first two months back to work, I struggled. I struggled so hard with having both my children in daycare and pretty much working solely to pay for that daycare. After eight and a half years of dedicated work, I went back with my first two weeks broken up into part time shifts because daycare had messed up placement for Carter to return to a full time slot. I then missed numerous days to stay home and care for them as illness was rampant through the centre.

After all those years of dedication, I was called into my boss’ office and put on notice that I better shape up or I was out. It all came down to roughly three and a half weeks of REALLY shitty quality of work – or complete lack of work, never mind all those previous years of traveling and overtime.  I felt as though I was given the short end of the stick because I wasn’t on my game as soon as I stepped foot in the office after a year’s leave. And as truly terrifying and sad it would be to find myself out of work, I was (am) shockingly comfortable with the thought. I absolutely love the industry that I’m in and the experiences I have, I just miss my babies so much. Being downsized or laid-off, seems like it would be a godsend some days.

Since The Talk, things have improved drastically and I feel, after almost a year back to work, I am somewhat back in the loop. But still, for some reason I find myself feeling more and more susceptible. I keep feeling like any wrong move I make will be reason enough to hand me notice and get me out the door. I just don’t have the confidence in my job that I once had.

Paranoid. There’s really no other way to explain what I’ve been feeling. I am completely and utterly paranoid.

Never in all my life can I recount a moment that I’ve felt this way. I’ve dealt with extreme self consciousness – like walking down the “Senior Hall” in high school trying to avoid eye contact and falling on my face as I passed through what felt like a million pairs of eyes watching and judging.

But paranoia? Doesn’t even compare. It’s debilitating and soul crushing. Questioning every move I make on a daily, hour, minutely basis is tiring. So tiring.

I crave to write. I think about it constantly.

I dream of a finished office space, white furniture with wall-to-wall white shelving filled with my books and my magazines. I dream of pristine walls with a slight hint of turquoise. I dream of a wide open window with lightweight sheers and a white orchid sitting on the sill. I see myself sitting at a glass top desk, lightly tapping out my mediocrity for all of the Internet.

In my head, that space will make it all better. That space will bring me back to the spot where I want to write again. In that space I will work, providing others with their lovely writing spaces while I will begin to remember what it was like when I would write something I was proud of. Something. Anything.

But that space won’t relieve my mental block. That space won’t be a reality for a long, long while – if ever. That space, this space, seems to have met it’s end. Or at least it feels that way.

It’s been months since I’ve been able to write something that others can connect with. The more I read, the more I realize that the need to be really good at what you do is ever more prevalent. As parent blogging changes and morphs rapidly into blogging for marketing and sponsorship, those whom used to write personally are converting and only the strong remain unwavering.

I am wavering. I have no desire to chase sponsorships no matter how much I’d love to be at the next *it* conference. Yet like others, I want to be noticed, adored and READ. (If you’re a blogger and say you don’t care about those things, you’re lying to us and worst of all – yourself. No one puts themselves out on a public stage just because.) But I have long since passed the stage of promoting this site. There is no more clicking around traffic building sites or adding my site to all the “communities”. I don’t work on improving my SEO (search engine optimization), nor do I care how you found my blog.

This blog is now dying. Actually, I believe it’s been dead for a while.

I am no longer – what I believe to have been – a member of the blogging community. There is very little community. It’s a shark tank full of people looking to make a quick buck and get stuff and if you happen to step on some toes to do it? So be it. There are some great people whom I’ve kept in contact with, but for the most part, my blog reader and twitter feed has transcended into white noise. There are fewer voices with a message; there are even less with ones I want to hear. That’s not to say that your writing is falling on deaf ears, rather that it’s just getting hard to discern the heartfelt writing. With FTC regulations, disclosure statements and disclaimers on satirical writing, it just seems so contrived and fake, even though the intention is quite the opposite.

Transparency is a fickle bitch.

As much as we’re transparent about what we’re writing and saying online, it’s behind the scenes where we are the most clouded,  contrary and unethical. Talking about people, their actions, their writing, their reviews, their “free gifts”, their sell-out attitudes. I see no disclaimers on the hateful statements spewed back and forth, no transparency in the relationships we are pretending to have.

I am no different.

I’ve sat back and watched for months as I fought my own internal battle of facing the truth. I’ve sat back and debated whether or not I owe you, readers and friends, a statement regarding things that have happened behind the scenes. You know, in the name of transparency. Am I being dishonest with you by not speaking out? Am I making myself appear guilty by allowing those who have spoken out – albeit inaccurately – on my behalf? Because every. single. fucking. time. I take to this keyboard, I stall. I am paralyzed by thoughts of people thinking that everything I write from here on out is a fucking lie because of something they’ve heard elsewhere. I think about the links and the emails flying back and forth saying, Did you see what she wrote now? I can’t believe she said that. What a fuckin’ liar. She is dead to me. After all this and she has the nerve.. Why does she even bother?

Dearest friends have said to let it go. My wonderful and loyal friends have said it nothing to worry about and that I acted out of good faith and love. My good friends, the people THAT KNOW ME are right.

But what about the others? The ones that I concern myself with when they really have shown they deserve little of my time. Why? Why do I give even an iota of shit for what they think?

Because I am human.

I am just like you: I want acceptance, I want love, I want people to care about me too. I want forgiveness, friendship and relationships. Because I am human.

Without transparency I feel I am stifling myself. I can write here over and over that I don’t care what you think and that it’s time to move on, but the truth is I do care, and I can’t move on – because EVERY. FUCKING. TIME. I open this computer I think about the people who have (may have) heard something and are taking it verbatim. I think about the fact that no one has even ASKED my side. People I thought were friends have taken what they’ve heard as gospel and haven’t even given me a chance. It angers me, it hurts me and it’s not fair.

But it’s not only about me and my perceived conflicts. There are people who I KNOW have been talking shit about some people I care deeply for and then they are playing nice to their faces and telling them they have their backs when they definitely do not. I know they say they are friends and “would do anything for them”  and then have been calling them hurtful and hateful things behind their backs. You forget, my friends, the internet is very much like high school. Things are said and they DO get back to the people you’re talking about; even if you’re calling someone a “crazy bitch” in jest, it may not be perceived that way in some conversations.

I think we owe it to ourselves – as compassionate, responsible and caring adults to just cut the shit. If you don’t like someone or something they’ve said, so be it. Deal with it. Move on. But the name calling? The hurtful and evil comments about people you *think* you know are really getting us nowhere. Because at the end of the day, has it made your life *that* much better by saying such evil things about someone else? No. Does letting someone know “for their benefit” that a friend of theirs has wronged someone else? No. Because no matter what you say, they will continue to make their own decisions in life and your hurtful words of “concern” and “support” are only going to make you look like that fickle bitch, Transparency.

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.

Surrounded by unpacked moving boxes, I feel claustrophobic. I can’t get motivated to unpack them, search out a spot for their content or enjoy their existence in my life. There are no pictures I want to hang on my walls; walls which are still lacking fresh paint and are littered with scraps of wallpaper reminiscent someonelse’s life. I have no excitement to decorate or mold this house into a home; most days I have no ambition to get out of bed.

I am angry. So angry. All the time. My children are constantly whining, crying, asking questions, repeating “Mommy? Mommy? Mommy?” for what seems like an eternity; they’re begging, bribing and making deals. They’re being – wait for it – CHILDREN yet I find myself reacting quickly without thought. I yell, I threaten and I walk away. I take my aggression out on my husband verbally; he retaliates and it’s a never ending vicious circle of awful and hateful words. Sometimes in front of the kids.

Then the guilt.

The dreaded, unrelenting Mommy Guilt sets in and I find myself wallowing in front of mindless television while I attempt to numb any feeling by way of my emotional eating. It’s only a temporary remedy because it comes back bigger, faster and stronger the next time.

I have dreams. Dreams I fear will never come to fruition due to circumstances which have altered who I am. I used to be an organized and ambitious person. I used to love going out with friends, socializing and meeting new people. I used to dress up, do my hair and love searching out the best outfit. I used to take pride in my work, enjoy my job and have some semblance of professionalism. I never knew the word can’t. Now? Met with even the smallest road block, I give up.

I hate this new me. I hate her with every fiber of my being, yet I do nothing to try and rid her from my life. It’s like watching from a distance as she gives up and slink away, shoulders slumped. I want to yell at her to shape up, take control and love her life; it’s the only one she gets. Take those chances, buy that new outfit, get your hair done; because really? It’s a small price to pay for a little control and happiness.

That girl? She’s a roadblock. She’s keeping me from traveling, seeing my friends, having night’s out and laughing.

Oh, the laughing. We used to laugh all the time. I mean, that’s how this all started (well, she has a HUGE part in it too).

I want to tell her that stress is a way of life: it’s all about how you manage it. She NEEDS to get a grip. She needs to stop yelling at my husband before he’s had enough and gives up. There’s only so much a person can take and it’s really not fair to expect the world of one person. He’s only human. She needs to see that. She needs to see that men just aren’t programmed like women: everyone knows that but her.

Maybe she needs to seek some help that maybe just a general practitioner can’t provide? Maybe someone else can tell her what is wrong and what steps she can take to improve it? Maybe someone else can tell her that medication isn’t the be all to end all and there are other methods to achieve the happiness she so desires?

Maybe she’ll listen to someone else.

:::

Thank you all for your comments on my latest entries. I know you’re there for my and your support means more to me than I can even say. I’ve tried a couple times to go back and respond to comments, but end up writing novels and then deleting them so I gave up.

I’ve made an appointment to also see a chiropractor to try and rid myself of these awful headaches I’ve been getting. From my evaluation she said “She’s got her work cut out for her”.  I see her on Saturday for my first appointment. Monday I see my family doctor and I am thinking I should maybe print out these latest entries for her…. I don’t know though. Should I?

I, for one, prefer maps. I like reviewing the map and writing my directions out by hand. I like to have all exits, turns and distances clocked out and written down for reference. I like to see the big picture.

I love my tech gadgets, but I’ve typically thought of GPS as being too annoying and quite worrisome because well, computers can mess with you sometimes, and I don’t like being messed with while I’m driving – especially in another country.

And I was right.

For our trip to Indiana, my dad offer to lend us his GPS and I agreed thinking that we would use it just as a back-up to the maps.

As a GPS newbie I was unfamiliar with the fact that YOU NEVER USE A GPS IN CONJUNCTION WITH MAPS. Not EVER.

Nor did I know that the stupid wench would repeat herself a billion times.

In 600 meters turn Left onto I69.

Turn left onto I69.

Turn left onto I69.

And! if you decided NOT to listen to the GPS.

Re-calculating….

Re-calculating….

Through Michigan the wench inside the GPS, who we affectionately named “Gretchen” was really pissed at us because we tried to use our maps in conjunction with her and she was having none of that.

You could hear the tone in her voice getting shrill and aggravated with each Re-calculating… as well progressed.

At one point I was sure if she had arms I would be bitched slapped.

The best part? Gretchen telling us to pull an illegal U-turn in the middle of a four lane road. I shit you not.

In 200 meters make a U-turn.

Make a U-turn.

Re-calculating…..

Please follow the highlighted route…

Luckily for the on-coming traffic I used my super human intuition and did NOT do as she said (unlike this dolt), which surely just pissed Gretchen off more.

I was mad at Gretchen.

There was clearly some trust issues between us, but you can’t blame me. I was a little put off by being encourage to commit traffic violations in a foreign country. How would I explain that to a State Trooper?

Sorry officer! My GPS told me to!

Riiight.

But eventually Getchen worked her way into my heart when she brought us full circle back to Target when I restarted her after our stop. She knew we weren’t ready to leave.

I think I hit something when I started the trip back up and Gretchen ended up bringing up full circle around the mall and back to Target. I couldn’t help but laugh even though I was still pissed off at her for her shitty illegal u-turn advice.

But then, in an attempt at redemption, Gretchen detoured me around construction in Indianapolis and got us back to Casey’s house about 10 minutes faster than Casey, which was pretty damn nice of her.

Thanks Gretch!

Now, somewhat in our good books, we decided to forgo the maps all together on the way home leaving ourselves to Gretchen’s devices. She utterly FAILED at getting us to a Chick-Fil-A (pronounced Chick-Flah*) where we were taken to another remote location under construction and instructed to pull another u-turn. Dammit Gretch, you’re really pissing me off. Now you mess with Chick-Flah? You’re a bitch Gretch. A real bitch.

Forgetting Chick-Flah we got back on the Interstate where we were instructed to pull OFF the Interstate and take some back country through Ohio. Again, I was angry that I let Gretchen mess with me.

If the GPS were smart it would know not to mess with a Canadian when it comes to American treats like Target and Chick-Flah.

I was sure this was payback for not listening to her instructions previously, and as we passed house after house, trailer park after trailer park, I knew we were being taken for a ride. Literally. How could a two lane road in Ohio back country with a speed limit of 40 miles be FASTER than the Interstate?

About 45 minutes into our trip through the bowels of Ohio, Hudson shit his pants. We were scared shitless HA! a little worried about stopping anywhere because the broken down abandoned truck-stops and dilapidated houses just screamed cheesy horror movie, where at one point I was convinced we were going to be part of the third installment of Jeepers Creepers. Had it been night time I think I would have peed my pants, because there is truly NOTHING scarier than being in a strange weirdo place when the sun goes down. THAT is when all the creeps come out to play. Unless we were in Jeepers Creepers of course, because that creepy truck driver is all kindsa crazy day or night.

After about 1 million miles of back country (Nice to meet you Ohio!) and a very quick stop to change a diaper (Hudson’s not mine)  we came upon some semblance of humanity as Gretchen decided to take us back to the Interstate, finally.

I’m sure she was thinking: Ha! I fucked your shit up didn’t I? Serves you right. From now on you will heed my direction you stupid Canadian bitches.

But! It was then we realized Gretch was taking us back to MY house and forgetting an all too important drop-off in Strath-Vegas which required a completely different border crossing into Canada.

NIIICE.

At this point I will mention that before we left I was reminded that, by all accounts, I was to avoid Detroit.

Yes, true Ontario snobbery. Detroit is like the sister city to Hamilton or Windsor which “we” have lovingly coined at the armpit (or crotch) of Ontario.

Not only did we drive through Detroit, but I think I saw every abandoned factory and smashed out, tagged building there is in that city. The stereotypical OMG-WTF-am-I-doing-here? Detroit. The only thing missing was Eminem serenading us.

Eventually we made it home without incident. Gretch was packed away to be returned to her rightful owner, and though I never plan on buying one, I now have a soft spot for that self-righteous, cynical bitch Gretchen.

* Yes, I now know that it’s pronounced Chick-Fil-A (just as it’s spelt), you can blame my Canadian accent for the confusion. And! Chick-Flah is more fun. Deal with it.

Six weeks Mike’s been without work. Six mother humping weeks.

FYI: There was no mother humping taking place, for realz.

Six weeks of my husband being around 24/7 and to tell you the truth, save a couple of tense moments, it was actually really nice. Being out numbered in the children to parent ratio can be very daunting on the best of days so to have that back up was more or less fuckin’ fantastic!

But today, Mike’s got a damn job. FINALLY! Today, before the break of dawn he was up scrapping off his car, warming it up and getting out on the highway while I snuggled in bed with a clingy little infant baby – who by the way we call The Stage Five Clingerâ„¢ because this kid? This kid looses his shit entirely if you leave the room or are out of touching range.

Yes. AGAIN. The Hot Fuzzâ„¢ has returned. WITH A VENGEANCE!

Fuck.

As The Stage Five Clingerâ„¢ and I cuddled in bed, the phone began ringing. As I rolled over to look at the time – 6:00am – I figured it could only be one person calling at the ungodly hour so I did what any concerned wife would do.

Rolled over and went back to sleep.

Then it rang again.

And as this concerned wife does, I cursed him for being a douchebag as I made my way out of the warm comforts of my bed to locate a phone.

Srsly? THREE fuckin’ phones in the house and not one can be found? STOP RINGING!

I answered with a friendly morning greeting. “What?”

His reply: “We have a situation.”

A situation? Who do you think you are Jack Bauer or something? Who the hell says that? ‘We have a situation?’ Situation. *pffft*

(Yes. I am extremely bitter and angry when I’m woken up.)

That “situation” turned out to be a tire blowout on the highway caused by the suspension coil snapping.

Thankfully he made it safely to the side of the road and called a tow without any other major mishaps.

But did I mention he’s been off work for SIX MOTHER HUMPING WEEKS!

We’re down to our last couple hundred dollars and then this?

I’m pretty certain that should there be a God, he’s totally laughing at us right now because if he didn’t laugh? He’d be crying too.

I am grateful that Mike’s alright and no one was harmed, but still, it seriously SUCKS.

Speaking of being grateful. Today’s post was going to be dedicated to Schmutzie’s baby Grace in Small Things, which I have decided to be a part of this year. The gist of it, as described by Schmutzie:

Grace in Small Things exists because the world we live in is loud and harsh and bright and demanding, and it is easy to slide into a less than thoughtful survival mode in which we do what we have to do to make it through the day with the least amount of strife possible. We allow it to rob us of the time and energy to be mindful of ourselves and those we love and to recognize the grace that exists in small things.

It is with this thought that I, Schmutzie, have created Grace In Small Things. Every day for 365 days, I will post a list of five things that have graced my life, either on that day or at any time in my life. Feel free to join us here. Or mock us. Or, you know, do whatever is in your heart. You can start on whatever day you want, so if you come across this six months from now, don’t let that hold you back.

I challenge you to give Grace in Small Things a shot, because life is too short and love is large.

So each day over the next 365 days (if I remember and don’t cop out), I’ll be sharing five small things that I am grateful for.

Starting now.

Grace in Small Things: Part 1 of 365

1. Mike’s safe and sound after this morning’s situation. *snort* (The snort is at ’situation’ not Mike’s safety, so you know.)
2. Coffee makers with a timer. (Duh.)
3. Microfiber socks
4. Four hours of consecutive sleep
5. Understanding new bosses who are alright with their new employee being late on their first day.

At 12:00pm Tuesay January 20, 2009 the 44th President of the United States of America was sworn into office. Barack Hussein Obama took the oath of the Presidency in front of a record crowd in Washington, DC.

Today is a day of change and hope for our friends to the south, and us Canadians couldn’t be happier for them, and for ourselves.

Though I was slightly put off by the announcement of Barack when he entered the stage area. Before him, out-going President George Walker Bush was annouced with his FULL given name while Obama received only an initial for his middle name.

HUSSEIN. It’s HUSSEIN. Get used to it. There’s no need to hide from it, ignore it or protect him (you) (us) from it. HUSSEIN is his name, it always will be and we (you) should embrace it for it’s not a name that makes a person, but a person that makes a name.

There’s nothing wrong with the name HUSSEIN. People do not shy away from names like JEFFERY (Dahmer), JACK (Kevorkian), but HUSSEIN? Yes. I know all about Saddam. But it’s just a name and I hate that, as the President, he is (expected to) (wanting to) (needing to) (trying to) dismiss the name because it *may* remind people of the madman that was hung in December, 2006.

Today is a day of moving forward.

Forward – along side the new President Barack HUSSEIN Obama. Name and all.

Here’s a video of Obama taking the Oath of the Presidency:

If you missed the very touching and inspiring Inaugural Speech it’s transcript is HERE.

{ source / image }

** cross-posted from Binkywood ***

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.