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 your husband come out of the bedroom questioning you if his jeans shrunk in the wash because they feel pretty tight, then only to realize they’re not his jeans, but YOUR jeans.

P.S. They’re my postpartum  jeans.

P.P.S. I’m not fat.

P.P.P.S. I’m big boned.

P.P.P.P.S And no, that’s not just what fat people say because they’re fat. I really have a larger skeletal frame.

Grace in Small Things: Part 3 of 365

1. lemon meringue pie
2. Dirty Dancing on stage –> seriously gave me chills; I fuckin’ LOVED it.
3. Jolly Jumper Cuddle Bag
4. Skullcandy Smokin’  Buds – in pink. I’ve never loved earbuds until now.
5. My beautiful keychain wristlet

:::

You’ve got only a few hours remaining until the giveaway closes!

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.

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.