Sometimes shopping is fun. I typically hate shopping for clothing now, which really wasn’t the case when I was smaller younger. I think the significant difference between when I was smaller younger and now that I’ve gained about half a small child in weight gotten older I just can’t ever find what I’m looking for. Please, enlighten me on something; why is it that all the stylish clothing are meant for those of a less heifer-like stature but when one peruses the sizes there’s only the fuckin’ sizes zero and one remaining? Doesn’t that maybe tell the purchasers or designers something?

But I digress.

I also do think it’s significantly due to the lack of consideration from my fellow shoppers; not just for myself, but for those around as well. There’s just an all around deficiency of manners which has increased significantly over the years. Who knows, maybe I just notice it more as I get older but no one holds doors for people anymore, the able bodied people cram into an elevator as fast as possible just to get fifty paces ahead, yet they’re no further ahead than if they had taken the damn stairs that one floor. Instead they’ve otherwise taken that spot from a mother with a small baby in a stroller or an elderly person who can’t walk that flight of stairs. Society has just become lazier, more self endulgent and compassion for others is a thing of the past.

I was raised to understand the importance of manners and respect; I can’t even bring myself to treat people with disrepect. I feel guilty and ashamed if I don’t hold a door for someone, I don’t know how people can behave like this on a regular basis.

What brought this on? Some stupid lady that parked in the last family parking space at IKEA and she didn’t even have children.

I wanted to rip her hair out as I lugged my infant carrier out of the car, but instead? I bought ice cream.

Let that be a lesson you family parking space stealing bitch.

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!

I am not the cook in this family, and I’m not ashamed to say so. I can cook (for the most part), but I choose not to. I don’t enjoy it and I’m far too impatient to wait for the outcome which usually leaves me making macaroni and cheese or sandwiches or something to that extent when Mike’s not home. He continually gives me a hard time because I just don’t cook. I say when he starts cleaning after himself *maybe* I’ll start cooking. But, I digress.

I cooked last night.

Kinda.

While perusing WalMart on Sunday we came across a fondue pot. We both have talked about buying one and what better opportunity than when you’re wandering about WalMart looking for items to blow hard earned money on.

So fondue for dinner last night.

image from bfeedme.com

I took Hudson grocery shopping yesterday to gather all the items we would need: cheese, fruits, bread, chocolate. Simple enough, right? I mean, how hard can fondue really be? (No, I’ve never actually ‘cooked’ for fondue before. I’ve eaten it many times.)

Mike, a wine hater, refused to use the wine cheese and requested Velveeta cheese instead. I am not partial to the Velveeta (unless it’s the macaroni because YUM!) and bought wine cheese for myself which didn’t get made because FOR THE LOVE OF GOD WE DON’T NEED THAT MUCH CHEESE! Needless I say I was a little pissed off that my cheese would have been too much. WTF?

Fighting ensued, as it seems to more and more often these days - AGAIN - and when that happens everything else is usually ruined but I was determined to make this the fun! and exciting! dinner I had envisioned. I wasn’t going to let selfishness and inconsiderate behaviour *ahem* ruin our family time, dammit.

I should have known that the evening was headed in a downward slope from this point on, but I digress.

Back to how Easy! fondue is to make!

Put the cheese in the pot and stir, right? Ya, that’s what I thought too. Mike went about melting the cheese while I tended to Hudson and Carter, I could smell this gawd awful aroma of fuel and melting/burning cheese but opted not to question what was happening. It turns out that the melting pot is not exactly meant for melting. Apparently it’s supposed to be melted in a pot on the stove prior to going in the MELTING POT.

I kid you not. How’s that for fuckin’ with your mind?

Needless to say cheese was melted, and CRUSTED to the bottom of the pot rendering it nearly inedible. I say nearly because apparently BURNT cheese is more enjoyable for a toddler than a perfectly cooked steak dinner.

Thinking things may improve with a little chocolate (because what can’t chocolate fix?) I prepared a water bath on the stove and began melting the chocolate wafers I bought.

Now, let me set the mood for you: the water boiling on high, chocolate melting, Carter running around, baby crying and husband pouting. Great atmosphere, right? LOVE. IT. You know you’re jealous.

Chocolate perfect consistency, my mouth is watering just thinking about scooping it up with a plump, ripe strawberry.

Cue distraction.

Cut back to beautiful, wonderful soupy chocolate which is apparently not so soupy anymore but erring on the side of sand-like consistency.

Fuck!

Apparently you can overcook chocolate. Who knew?

I wasn’t going to give up on it. I can’t turn my back on chocolate no matter the situation.

Instead of dipping my fruit into the creamy goodness I was hoping for I was scooping chocolate crystals on to my knife and attempting to smear it on pineapple, banana and strawberries.

I was damned if I wasn’t going to give this all the fight I had.

The fight didn’t last long.

I conceded to the overcooked chocolate and burnt cheese. I was officially the loser.

As I cleared the table, cursing under my breath, I felt an incredible urge just throw it all in the garbage and never attempt it again. Instead I asked Mike: “You think we can scrub the shit outta the pot and pawn it off as a Christmas gift?”

Who knew there was an art to cooking fondue?

You know what absolutely drives me up the wall? Well, there’s A LOT. But based on the amount of bitching and whining I’ve done on this blog in the past six months (which has completely killed your liking to COMMENT on this piece of shit) you’ve probably got a god handle on what really gets under my skin.

Hold on, hold on. This post isn’t (entirely) about pregnancy!

I know! Miracle, right?

I waddled my fat ass to a table in a very busy food court in Costco over my lunch hour. Mostly because they have excellent poutine and I craved it like crazy, but I also had to pick up diapers and pull-ups for daycare (Dude, we’re potty training starting tomorrow! Pray for me!).  Just as my dear friend put her last fry in her mouth an elderly lady and, presumably, her grandson began meandering towards our table. Before my friend could even swallow they were hovering over us like vultures on prey at the side of a desert highway.

I hadn’t even picked up my jacket before the lady sat her fat decrepit ass  on the bench and proceeded to motion for her horde family to follow.

Dude, you could at least let the pregnant lady get her footing before you practically fling me and my belongings on the floor.

And I went all quite.

I didn’t even say anything.

Not a peep.

I think we were so shocked by their actions I couldn’t even say something if I wanted.

Besides, whose side would you take? The poor defenseless old lady with a cane or a hormonal pregnant woman? It’s really a catch 22 I’d say.

But! The Husband-Who-Is-Not-Even-Worthy-Of-That-Title-At-This-Moment is at home.

He just arrived home.

Early.

On a Friday.

Do you think he would have stopped and picked up Carter from daycare on his way to save me the trip since I did do some grocery shopping on my lunch break?

Nope.

Not even an offer.

[I just happened to know he was home because my MSN flashed that I had signed on another computer.]

Can’t go off on an old lady in Costco that I won’t ever see again… but I do tear a couple strips off a man that I have to be cooped up in the house with once this snow storm hits this evening.

Shear Brilliance.

I’ll probably do it again once I get home too.

What can I say? Glutton for punishment? Maybe. But that sure was a dick move if you ask me.