This One Goes Out to the One I Love

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Dear Diary or whole Internet…whatever,

I have a confession to make.  I might have been a wee bit selfish and assholey about Father’s Day.  It may not have occurred to me to put any effort into it until the actual day.  And then I blew it.  Big time.

First, Mother’s Day was a freakin national holiday for me and I took it VERY seriously.  No one was taking this day away from me.  I did what I wanted, when I wanted, how I wanted and I did not wipe one butthole that was not solely behind me for one whole day.  It was a big deal.  I prepped Mark for weeks that I was taking this day.  No presents.  No cards.  No breakfast in bed (besides the bed was already full of crumbs from my nacho binge the night before anyways).  No need.  JUST LEAVE ME ALONE.  So he did, they did.  Like a boss.  He took the day and enjoyed the kids without me.  It was awesome.

So – he set the bar pretty high right?  I should have followed suit and let him have a day all to himself,  bought him a cool gift, or at the very least become an animal in the sack right?  Nope.  Not at all.  First, I was tired.  We’d been in the sun all day.  I just wanted to sleep for cryin out loud, and since 50 Shades and my new smut addiction have come about, he hasn’t had much to complain about. (Gross, I know, I’ll stop.  I can hear my sister ewwing from 2 miles away.)

AND, I also may have gone a bit over budget this month, so spending any money, even on him, would have just made him mad, so the present was a nonstarter.

My big hang-up, and the thing that made me kind of an asshole, was my whole attitude about the whole thing.  I might have had the teeny tiny thought that he didn’t deserve a day off.   I do the work Monday through Friday.  I wipe the butts (can you tell I’m getting a wee bit tired of doing this?), I use all my vacation on mystery fevers, I worry what the mystery fevers are, I pack lunches, I fix dinner (kind of, they get fed anyways, PB&J counts people), I chauffeur to med checks, doctors, soccer, karate, daycare and so on.  I work full time, do the pick ups, rush home to fix dinner (kind of, see above), unpack, OK, I’m getting tired of typing this, let’s just say I do a lot.  By myself.

So, I kind of got my panties in a bunch and ignored any sort of planning or putting any thought into the day.  I may not have given him the day because this was his first time home in two weeks and I NEEDED him to be with the kids.

Problem is, he didn’t deserve my attitude.  His job isn’t his choice, a sucky local job market makes it so he has to travel to find work.  It’s a good job, good pay with a good company and an awesome opportunity for him that at the same time allows our family to stay put near our support systems and surroundings with which we are familiar.   He gets to come home every weekend mostly and when he does, he hits the ground running.

He gets home, maintains the outside (with the exception of my May only gardening helpfulness), does trash duty, pool duty, fixes all that’s been broken (because I’m just a girl, math is hard!), helps out his family, and cooks all the weekend meals.  This is all in addition to organizing fun nights like outdoor movie night, trips to the Zoo, swim parties and cookouts.  All with two kids hanging off him.  Then he catches a 7 a.m. flight back to his hotel “home.”

So, it’s not like he’s livin the dream either.  And he hates it.  I mean, the job is great, but it’s the crazy number of miles away with no end in sight that bites.  Plus, he’s a way better dad than I’ll ever be a mom, even just two days a week.  Sure, he might miss a few details and match G in horrendous clothes, but really, there’s not much to complain about regarding his parenting skills.  He has more energy, more creativity, and basically the mentality of a 12 year old.  No wonder kids love him.  He’s wicked fun, indefatigable (word of the day toilet paper), and the most creative dad on the planet.  Oh yeah, and none of it’s forced.  Even before we had kids, I could find him playing with his nieces and nephews when the rest of the adults were being all grown uppity together.

So, this is my public apology.  I am sorry honey for being such an asshat.  You know I’m not perfect and you love me anyways.  You’ve put up with me for close to 18 years and this is no where near my first fuck up.  I’ll make it up to you.  Maybe with some steak, Killian’s and a rowdy romp in the hay once the kids go to bed.  What can I say, he’s easy to please.  No ties for this guy…well maybe we’ll throw some ties in there, you know, just for fun.  🙂

Outdoor movie night...Come on!!!  Suck at something will ya?!

Outdoor movie night…Come on!!! Suck at something will ya?!

Real men wear pink and watch the babies

Real men wear pink and watch the babies

You may see a smartass, I see a man unloading the dishwasher.

You may see a smartass, I see a man unloading the dishwasher.

He was a LAMP for christsakes!  I love lamp.

He was a LAMP for christsakes! I love lamp.

And this.  Just. This.

And this. Just. This.

 

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Things Have Been Said

A snippet of things I have said tonight…

“I cannot dance like a royal princess if you don’t turn Macklemore back on.”

“Stop eating the butter.”

“Let me get this straight, your head hurts because your thumb hurts?”

“NO!  I am not wiping your butt until I finish dinner!”

“NO!  I am not plunging the toilet until I finish dinner!”

Aaand face palm!!

Face Palm

 

Foodscapades

Fat cat

I like food.  I am currently successfully battling my food demons.  As of right now, I am back on the wagon, on week 4 of Weight Watchers and have lost 3 lbs.  That’s pretty good for me.  My goal is not to lose my ass and thighs, that’s a forevermore for this girl, but I’d like three things to go away.  First and foremost, the baby belly.  Second, the double chin aka the Waddle.  Third, I need to dump the chubby arms and get my rockin swimmer arms back.  The kind I had 10 years ago whilst waiting tables and bartending.  The arms that came from 12 hour shifts, trays of food, moving kegs of beer and full bus tubs.  I want to sell tickets to the gun show.  $50 a pop.

About a week ago, one of Will’s after-school caregivers asked me if I was going to have a baby.  If that’s not a kick in the pants, I don’t know what is.  It hurt.  It made me feel bad, which makes it even worse because I was feeling pretty good about myself up until that point in the day.  Was it stupid for her to ask?  Hell yes.  Was it a crazy statement?  Not so much.  It’s where my weight has settled.  Babies have left and food has taken their place.  My food baby.  God I love that food baby.   It might help if I wasn’t constantly touching it and resting my hand on it, much like I did when I was pregnant.  It’s just fascinating that so much can just dwell there.  I have to admit, I am constantly poking at it, grabbing handfuls of it when I sit down and look around for a pair of scissors, because that’s what I want to do, just trim it off.  Can’t hurt that much right?  See how lazy I am?  I’d rather CUT my fat off with SCISSORS instead of GASP! walking away from that donut or getting on a treadmill a few times a week.

Since the food baby question, I have been more motivated than ever, so thank you naïve young daycare girl, you made me hit bottom.  Time to look up and start taking care of myself.  I want to like me.  I want my kids to know that I like myself.  And I want to make my husband happy, which is not the hard part.  He really likes chubby girls.  His big fear is that I’ll get “too skinny” and lose my ass.  Don’t worry honey, it’s not going anywhere.  I’ll never be my teenage self (save maybe the acne, which come on, give a girl a break! I’m 33, when does it end?), but I would like to be a leaner version of me.  One that doesn’t use rouching on swimsuits as extra material to fill.  I want the actual rouching to come back and be just that, cute wrinkles in the front.

As a testament to my commitment and a way to keep up the motivation, here Internet, is a picture of me NOW.  You know, so I can mail it to Weight Watchers and have them ask me to be a spokeswoman, cause you know, they don’t have enough celebrities who’ve just had babies 30 seconds before who want to join.  Just so you know, I made pregnant cankles sexy WAAAY before Kim K.  You stole my sausage feet Kim!

No, I didn't buy this dress.  My sister talked me out of it after I texted this pic to her.  Gotta love sisters.  They tell it like it's fat.

No, I didn’t buy this dress. My sister talked me out of it after I texted this pic to her. Gotta love sisters. They tell it like it’s fat.

A good example of "the Waddle."  Yeah, the skinny bitch next to me makes it look worse.  I blame her completely.  :-P

A good example of “the Waddle.” Yeah, the skinny bitch next to me makes it look worse. I blame her completely. 😛

 

The Bitch Face

Original Article Here

I am a victim of Bitchy Resting Face. YES. And to be fair, these girls actually don’t have BRF in my opinion. I think they had to work pretty hard to look mean. I, on the other hand, just look pissed off normally.

I have tried different looks over the years to make me seem more approachable. One was growing out my hair.  Apparently short hair makes me look even meaner.  This may have worked if I hadn’t constantly pulled it back into a tight ponytail because I hate the feeling of hair on my neck. This caused my giant forehead and huge Dumbo-like ears to become my defining feature. Not a good look. Just ask my stylist who, when I begged to cut my hair short again, made me promise on my first-born that I will wear earrings and wear makeup EVERY DAY. For the most part, I’ve held up my end of the bargain, but on the days I don’t, you can bet I’ll see the most popular girl in high school at Costco, which doesn’t really bother me, as she didn’t know who I was anyways. These are also the days I get my picture taken. Constantly. For no reason.

Anyways, this is a big issue to have when desperately trying to fit in in high school. I remember wondering why for the life of me I could not make friends in my catholic high school after spending the first 9 years in public school.   Take a fish out of water, combine with BRF, my introversion and the acute inability to open my mouth to make initial conversation with another human being, and I was out of luck.  High school was a character building experience to say the least.

I was the most lonely my freshman year during my Intro to Typing class, which, unbeknownst to me, was an elective only seniors chose. I was seated behind what must have been the senior plastics of their day and desperately wanted to be included in their conversations on a daily basis. One day, one of the cool guys (who is totally probably fat and sad now, I wish I could remember his name) turned around to ask me a question. I looked up from my typewriter (yes, you heard me) to listen and he backed away with his hands in the air saying, “Okaaay, nevermind, sorry didn’t mean to bother you,” and then proceeded to snicker at the girl next to him about “what pissed her off?”    That’s just my face dillhole. I was LISTENING.

One of my biggest pet peeves that happens from having BRF is people are constantly telling you to smile. Life’s not so bad! Cheer up! Whaaa? I wasn’t unhappy, nor was I looking at you, so please be on your merry way. OK, maybe I am a bit of a bitch.

One of our building maintenance guys thinks it’s funny to call me “Smiley.” He doesn’t know me, nor has he had more than a 5 minute conversation with me, but this doesn’t stop him from judging my unhappy appearance and feeling free to comment on the state of my face. I don’t look at him and out of the blue go, “Paunch!” No, cause that would be rude. Smiley, however, is apparently funny.

My question is, what do these people want from me? A shit grin on my face at all points in the day in the off chance someone is looking at me? Not gonna happen. For me, apparently my smiling is so rare that when I do smile, people make a big deal about it and insist on me telling them “what I’m so happy about,” to which I oftentimes cannot explain without sounding like an idiot.

To sum up, bitch face + introvert = not very likeable 1st impression.  Sorry, it’s just the way I look.

Bitch

Bitch

No bitch...but maybe a tad crazy.  I can never get it right.

No bitch…but maybe a tad crazy. I can never get it right.