By Now, I Should Know Better Than To Leave The House When I’m Crabby

I woke up this morning in a bad mood.

That’s actually a slight understatement, actually. I was so angry in the general sense that I continually thought to myself: “geez, Heather…you’re being pretty bitchy this morning.”

And to be honest, it was entirely my fault. I opted to sleep in bed last night, instead of on the couch. Knowingly I went in aware that it was unlikely I’d get a good night’s sleep. For after all the money we’ve spent on a new bed, our comfortable bedding, and exotic pillows I truly thought I’d have to sell a body part to afford, the truth to the matter is: I cannot sleep next to my husband. He thrashes, kicks, talks, shrieks, mumbles, snores, mouth-breaths, jolts, and – in all earnestness – punches.

But several times per week I glance at that Sleep Number bill and sleep in the bed out of guilt. Sleep is putting it politely, though. It’s more like: I lay comfortably in frustration.

Around 12:30 in the morning Nick punched me in the face and screamed “did you hear that?” I sat up and said “WHAT?!” – frantically, because I hadn’t heard shit. He rolled over and mumbled “I guess it was nothing” and started to snore.

At least one more time he woke me by kicking me. That, of course, was after I was finally able to get back to sleep around 4 o’clock in the morning.

At 6:30 his alarm went off.

At 6:45 he spent ten minutes dropping everything he could on the dresser directly next to my head.

At 7:15 he woke me up to say he was leaving for work and to ask what was wrong. At this point I imagined fire breathing out of my mouth when I said “WHAT DO YOU MEAN ‘WHAT IS WRONG?!”

So I was crabby today. And tired. Entirely my fault for choosing to sleep in bed instead of on our comfy, and solitary, couch last night.

all-i-really-have-going-for-me-is-sarcasm-resting-bitch-face-a-huge-rack-and-really-good-eyebrows--3d268I should have taken my aggression towards the entire world as a reason to stay at home, nestled on my couch with my pajamas, my Netflix, and my Pinterest. Everyone deserves a Resting Bitch Day every once in a while, anyway. And I’ve been working my ass off lately to get our house move-out ready, as well as to put together everything I want for our new place so that our move-in can be as seamless as possible.

 

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Oh, we’re also going on vacation next week – just a few weeks before we move – so a day to myself to calm the fuck down seems like it would be perfectly in order.

But by the time I was done showering and angrily getting into yoga pants and a t-shirt (but no make up, as I reminded myself with fierce hostility that no one notices when I wear make up anyway), I was convinced that I had to plug along with my plans for the day. Because tomorrow I could be angrier, and would then be pissed off at today’s self for procrastinating. And then the possibility of me becoming a huge ball of red, hot, fiery, pissed off was too great.

This was clearly a mistake.

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So I’m doing a project for which I have no fucking clue what I’m doing.

This is the general course of all projects I do, but I especially don’t know what I’m doing on this one.

In short: my husband and I use our two, ugly-as-fuck nightstands pushed together as a long dresser that houses our in-bedroom TV. I’m tired of looking at those fucking things on the rare occasion that I sleep in my own, extremely expensive and un-sleepable bed, though; so I’m repainting them AND removing the top drawers to turn that space into the DVD-VCR-cable-etc shelf.

You people have no idea how much I hate myself for not just going out and buying something new on this one. No idea.

So I had to go to the paint store, obviously to buy paint for this dumb-shit of a project. And I’ve never been to a paint store before, or bought paint other than the kind you put on a canvas for that matter. Which means that I had absolutely no experience with taking young children into a paint store.

What I’m saying is: I should have put this off for a different day.

What in the actual fuck is it about paint stores that makes kids lose their fucking minds? All of a sudden I’m one of those people. One of those people in the store for whom everyone else is either thinking that I – the mother – needs to get shit under control; or, on the flip side, is being pitied.

“Oh, her children must need refills on their Ritalin medication.”

At one point, my 11 year old came up to me with a pile of over 200 paint chip cards in her hand. “I have what I need!” she said, and I gave the oh-hell-no look that should put the fear of God in her, and yet only inspired a pout and silent retreat to put them back where she found them.

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A little later on in the day, we had been back at home for a while and I knew I needed to go to the grocery store. Half hams were on sale, and I’d be damned if I didn’t stock up on those.

Plus, my dad was home which meant I could go by myself. It’d be like the vacation I’ve truly needed all these years.

Hopeful that my day was about to look up, I grabbed my little notepad that I use for small grocery shopping trips, and I began to look for a pen. I knew for sure that there had to be at least one: the pen that I put a Post It note on just yesterday reading “DO NOT TOUCH –  THIS IS MOM’S.”

That pen, as well as all the others, were missing.

My eye began to twitch as I stalked around the house, searching. Mumbling under my breath that I just knew this was a part of some household conspiracy to make me go insane, I searched and searched until finally I had to settle for a crayon. Standing amidst an array of Barbie clothes, dried up Play doh, and a Lego cramming its way into my foot, I stood in the kids’ room writing my list with a broken, red crayon. If you didn’t look at my list closely, you might’ve thought it was blood.

“What do you want for dinner?” I asked, being polite and trying to preserve some semblance of the very sanity that would get me to and from the grocery store in one piece.

“Mommy, I think you’re getting a lazy eye.”

[Drops mic. Leaves the room. Goes insane. Blows up the world. Everyone’s dead.]

I wish I could say that this was the end of my terrible and intolerably crabby day, but it wasn’t. While I was at the store, this old guy came up to me and started shouting in my face about how “young people” are too wrapped up in social media to be a part of the world around them. To make matters worse, I’m pretty sure he was the guy that sang Tu Ra Lu Ra to me at the register counter when I worked in a pharmacy during college. I also got home to find a note on our front door: the neighbors complained that they didn’t like my patio arrangement, and wanted it removed in the next 24 hours. And that 11 year old that tried to steal over 200 paint chip sample pages at the paint store this morning lied to my face about picking up that dried Play doh I spied when using the crayon to write my grocery list.

So I’m going to bed, still grumpy. By now, I should know better than to leave the house when crabby. Next time I really will stick to my PJs and my Netflix and my couch.

 

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I Think I Finally Learned To Can’t Even

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For the longest time, I had no idea in what context, exactly, I could say that I can’t even. Or, more precisely, in what context I could can’t even.

Since, you know: to can’t even is to do something. It’s like a verb now. Just like because is a preposition to lead off a fragment; and on that note, fragments are totally acceptable now. Oh, and literally has lost all its meaning.

Because illiteracy. I literally can’t even.

Not only is it grammatically incorrect, it makes no sense. What do you mean you can’t even? Can’t even what? Can’t even believe what you’re seeing? Can’t even understand what people see in One Direction? Can’t even justify buying bananas over 19 cents a pound?

Just what the fuck does it mean to can’t even? And, worse: to literally can’t even? And disastrously: because I literally can’t even.

Actually, because wouldn’t work there since “Because I literally can’t even” is – in some bizarre, fucked up sense – a complete sentence and because as a preposition needs to be in a fragment. I think.

Because stupidity.

None of that even matters anymore, though. I am happy to announce that I think I finally learned to can’t even.

Possibly, even, to literally can’t even.

Today I was sitting in my living room, looking on Sears’ website at refrigerators. A bizarre series of events then took place that taught me how to can’t even.

First, my father – who lives with us now – hobbled out of his bedroom and into the kitchen. After a few minutes, I realized he was sawing something with a steak knife.

Although I had prepared no steak.

After several minutes of him sawing away, cursing under his breath, my eleven year old walked out of her bedroom and asked what he was doing.

He was sawing off parts of a chocolate bunny. With a steak knife. To eat, I assume.

Just then, the floor started shaking. I mean shaking and booming, and I realized it was because the guy that lives next door was working on a car and playing some booming bass rap shit so loudly that it was rattling our walls and floors.

So the ground was shaking, it sounded like the apocalypse was starting outside, and my dad was in the kitchen sawing off and eating individual body parts of a chocolate bunny.

Nothing unusual. Just your average day.

I was too overwhelmed to continue looking at refrigerators, so went onto Facebook and the first thing in my feed was an update on this Chinese panda who is shocking the world over his involvement in a breeding program. In short: he is super horny and lasts for an obscene amount of time while doing his panda deeds.

He’s apparently so virile that they have named him “Enduring Brother.”

So the walls and the floor, and the couch I was sitting on, were all booming to the sweet sounds of the end of the world; my dad was continuing his harvest of chocolate bunny body parts; and on the screen of my MacBook was an article loaded with photographs of Enduring Brother having crazy long panda sex with a female panda who, quite frankly, should be ashamed of her behavior.

This was precisely when I learned to literally can’t even.

And I know that I learned to do it, because without even realizing what I was saying, my daughter came up to me and asked if she could have a snack and I said “I literally can’t even right now …do whatever you want.”

To literally can’t even, or to can’t even, is to be so shocked and overwhelmed that you can process nothing else. No requests for snacks. No responses to questions. No critical thinking at all. To literally can’t even is to live in a perpetual state of being overwhelmed by the shaking of the apocalypse, the disturbing chocolate bunny eating habits of an old man, and the sexual activity of a horny, Chinese panda.

Now, it’s your turn to literally can’t even.

Because dirty panda sex.

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Stay At Home Suckers

So just a couple days ago I posted about the Stay at Home Mom versus Working Mom debate. There is absolutely nothing new or breaking about this debate. It’s been going on for what feels like forever; and – really – it is a matter of personal choice and nothing more.

And then today I went to lunch and sat – unfortunately – at a booth next to the loudest and nastiest Working Moms that I have ever encountered.

From their patent leather briefcases to their arrogant and pompous attitudes, these ladies were without a doubt, douchesausage material. They were both loud talkers, so the entire restaurant could hear them. And they were candidates for the world’s bitchiest mothers.

I told my four year old that crying is for sissies and if she has to do it, go outside.

I have too many reports to get in to do school supply shopping this year, so my husband is handling it; which is good because I could care less about supplies as long as the kids are taken care of by someone else.

So when I dropped her off at soccer, I saw some of those Stay At Home Suckers and just pitied them. I wouldn’t be able to handle my life being so boring and meaningless. I mean – they just do nothing all day!

Just a few of the gems that came from these two assholes before they clomped out of the restaurant in their Payless Shoe Source pumps.

So as to the boring and meaningless part: I can admit that as a SAHM, life can be a little mundane. You can only mop so many floors or wipe so many asses before things start to seam a little blasé. But mixed in among those terribly meaningless tasks, there really is a whole lot of meaning. And as for boring; and doing nothing all day … well, I shouldn’t even have to justify that. But were I to …

9:00 AM My Rebecca Black-ish song would not begin at 7:00 am, at least this morning. I sleep in and get up at around 9 o’clock, only to dick around on the Internet for about 30 more minutes.

9:30 AM I make crepes for breakfast. Strawberry crepes, to be precise; and no fatty crap in it so they are completely nonfat and full of antioxidants. After crepes: shower, makeup, hair.

10:30 AM While straightening my hair I finally notice that Pookie has taped something to the bottom of my mirror. I debate for the next 30 minutes while getting dressed whether this is a sign that I am winning at parenthood, or that children should never be allowed near me. I conclude that I am winning.

11:00 AM I yell and scream for about 15 minutes to “get dressed, brush teeth, wash face, wash hands, brush hair.” I feel like a broken record because for some reason other things come up – Agamemnon did something cute or a book seemed more interesting.

11:30 AM We are out the door and on the way to my father’s house, what I like to call “My Free Storage and Laundry Facility” to get my canning materials. Pookies has a 12 day trip with the Biological Bum coming up next week and asked me to can peaches to take with. We get to my dad’s by noon and he rambles about football or something for a while – my stomach is growling too loudly to hear.

12:00 PM Sawasdee for Thai. Lunch specials are nice, although Toys ‘R’ Us is next door, so between listening to the douchesausage Working Moms and eating my food, I field the begging for toys. I stick to my guns. There will be no Toys ‘R’ Us today.

1:00 PM I make a last minute decision to combine all of my stops into one, big shopping trip at Target. World Market, Home Depot, Barnes and Noble, Staples – they all get crossed off the list and we are heading for Target to get everything there.

1:15 PM On the way to Target we stop at a farm-stand to get peaches for canning. The owner asks me if I ever shop at the farmstand down the street. I say “not usually” and she says that if I promise to never shop at the other one again she’ll give me discounts. I get a flat of strawberries, a flat of peaches, and eight pounds of apples for $26. I drive away having no clue what the fuck I’m going to do with all this fruit.

1:30 PM Target. There is nothing special about Target – ever. I “check in” at Target because I want to become the Mayor of it on foursquare, but am then reminded that recently I became the Mayor of Chuck E. Cheese, for which I want to slit my wrists. I avoid the razor aisle intentionally.

2:15 PM Quick stop at Petco to get the new ‘fluff -n- stuff’ cage liner for Agamemnon. The check out guy makes a joke that he was electrocuted to explain his wild hair. I don’t give a fuck for his little antics.

2:30 PM We are home. The car is unloaded. I discover that Pookies left the milk out of the fridge all day, so will have to head out to the grocery store later. In the meantime, I clean the kitchen in preparation to destroy it canning peaches after setting out the homeschooling stuff for the day. Thankfully, homeschooling I planned for today is all do-it-yourself, so Pookies goes into autopilot.

2:45 PM Discover that the dishwasher is still broken, despite it being fixed over the weekend by hottie maintenance guy. Spend 15 minutes on hold while washing the dishes that did not get cleaned. Hang up out of anger that no one ever answered.

3:00 PM I put away all the stuff from Target and assemble the lamp I bought to make our living room look less like a dungeon. While doing so, I whack myself over the head and give myself a headache. Wine will fix that.

4:00 PM I scrub the toilets, dust all the rooms, and vacuum. Then I realize that Agamemnon’s cage needs to be cleaned, so I clean the cage and re-vacuum.

5:00 PM I realize I have not planned dinner. Wine will fix that. A little tipsy, I decide to throw together some pasta with bread. More wine. Headache gone. Agamemnon happy.

6:00 PM Time to can. I burn the shit out of my hand while sterilizing the jars. Wine will fix that too.

6:45 PM Now my feet hurt. A lot. I’ve been on my feet and moving (with the exception of our Thai lunch and travel time) for almost 10 hours now. I’m pretty sure wine will fix even that. Husband reaffirms that by pouring more for me.

7:15 PM I completely forgot the milk and God forbid we have no milk; and now I probably shouldn’t drive anyway because wine has fixed four or five ailments at this point. Send husband for milk and he gets huffy. Don’t care.

7:30 PM Bath time! Worst fucking time of the day, I shit you not. I field something like forty-five inquiries about how long the bath has to be, how much has to be washed, and what alternatives are an option. “No alternatives are an option and if you don’t can it, you’ll stay in the bath the rest of your life” is what I feel like saying, but I just smile and say assertively “GET IN THE TUB.”

8:30 PM Bathtime is finally over. Pajamas are on and everyone appears to be ready for bed. I’m so tired I can barely see straight anymore, so I collapse on the couch to start working on another transcription for my dad’s next book. These transcriptions are terribly interesting but horrifically tedious to do. Wine will fix that.

9:00 PM After 20 minutes of transcription, I decide to blog instead. Now that my blog is written, there is only one more thing left to do: make myself look as horrible as possible, or come up with an excuse – any excuse – to keep my husband at bay. Fortunately, I am so tired and wine has fixed so many things today that I’m pretty sure this won’t be an issue.

Meaningless? Maybe some of it. Boring? I don’t think so. Do nothing all day? Yeah fucking right. I wish I could do nothing all day. I suppose I’m nothing more than a Stay At Home Sucker in the end; but I’d rather be a sucker than wear tacky Payless Shoe Source pumps and carry a dumb looking briefcase everywhere.

Goodnight.

A Weekend of Alternative Parenting

I am not even sure what “alternative parenting” means, to be quite honest. I Googled it and Attachment Parenting came up – not the concept I am talking about right now by any stretch of the imagination. No, faithful blog followers, when I say I had a weekend of “alternative parenting” I mean that I basically didn’t parent at all. I just decided to not give a shit. About anything.

We all need a break from the daily SAHM grind. Mothers that work are so admirable to me mostly because they let some of the small stuff go in the interest of keeping their sanity. I could never do that. By contrast, I feel that since my life is defined by this motherhood wrap, I need to be on it all the time. I was heading for burn out, though – something I always seem to be heading for – so this weekend I decided to kick back and watch the state of nature take over.

Here were the results:

My list received no checkmarks.

I’m not sure if I have mentioned this before, but I am an obsessive list maker. I will make these enormous lists full of daunting tasks, and you think that I won’t be able to get them done because there are just so many things on there; but because I made my list I get them all done anyway.

Towards the end of last week, I realized I had a lot of things to do over the weekend and this coming week, so I decided to make a list so that I would easily stay on track. Each day had its tasks that needed to get done to lead to the next day, and so on and so forth.

Since I decided to not really give a shit, though, my list received absolutely no check marks of completion for the weekend. And I don’t fucking care.

Around 11 o’clock Saturday morning, I decided to make cans of pickles and fruit

It was a completely off-the-wall and out-of-nowhere decision, but around 11 o’clock in the morning on Saturday, I decided to make cans of pickles and fruit. This is something I’ve been wanting to do for a while (which is odd because I hate cooking); and yet, I had never really gotten around to it because I’m always too busy wiping people’s asses and cleaning up toast crumbs off the kitchen counter.

Because I decided not to parent or really give a shit this weekend, though, it instantly became a “me” weekend and so canning rose to the top of my priorities. As an added bonus, when my Trailer Trash Mom called and I accidentally answered the phone before seeing the caller id, I was able to rub it in her face that I have again achieved something of motherhood that she never was capable of doing.

The apartment became what appears to have been a war zone

I must spend an inordinate amount of time cleaning up after people without even realizing it, in addition to what I am aware of doing that is. As I sit here, looking around the apartment, I see what appears to have been a war zone.

There are crumbs all over the coffee table. There is hay from Agamemnon (my guinea pig) all over the living room floor. There is strawberry jam on the wall in the kitchen and some sort of unidentified substance on the refrigerator handle. Our kitchen table – usually a pristine image of style and grace – has glitter in the grooves, empty grocery bags all over the top of it, and miscellaneous shit (mail, keys, pens) sitting around it. The bathroom appears to have suffered an explosion of towels, for there are seven bath towels just strewn about in there. There are hair barrettes fucking everywhere.

What’s worse is the condition of the people. My husband still has toothpaste around his mouth from brushing his teeth this morning. He has little clippings from his beard on his shirt too. Pookies took a bath this morning and yet there is dirt on just about every inch of skin. It would appear my “a fruit or vegetable before every snack”-rule was only minimally adhered to as well, because the only fruit eaten was watermelon, and half of it is sitting on the kitchen counter, waiting to be disposed of.

And again, I don’t really care.

You may be asking yourself at this point: just what do I care about if I am coming off this weekend of alternative (a.k.a. not) parenting? Am I worried about catching up on my list, getting things back under control, and cleaning up this gargantuan mess?

Not really.

I care about the fact that I canned dill pickles, spicy garlic pickles, strawberries, apricots, and yellow cherries. I care about the fact that when I went to Sephora today I got a 500 point perk as well as a 100 point perk. I care about the hilarious scene in the Target between a husband and wife in matching Raiders jerseys – the defining moment of which included the woman screaming the words “if I see you check out that bitch over in the Starbucks again I will whoop yo’ ass and cut that bitches weave!!” I’m excited that our neighbors upstairs moved out (they are so damn loud); and moreover that I suggested they send home the friend helping them move with the hairy back and send back someone more along the lines of Goran Ivanisevic.

More than anything, I care about the fact that I feel well-rested, and ready to actually attack my list. I think a weekend of alternative parenting really worked for me. Not sure it worked for anyone else, but that doesn’t really matter at this point, does it?

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That belch tasted like rotten milk…

Six of the most horrific words to ever exit the mouth of another human being while sitting in an outdoor Johnny Rockets – a crowded public venue.

The day was already bizarre enough as is. Every day seems to be here in beautiful and unpredictable-weathered California. We had an early morning phone call that swimming class was canceled because a kid in the earlier class had taken a dump in the pool, so I figured – what the hey, we’ll go out for lunch today.

We go out for lunch most days, but not usually “sit down”-type lunch that takes time and effort and “quiet down, we’re in public” on repeat. I’m not saying we go to McDonalds every day, just usually grab salads and sandwiches to-go as we travel from place to place during the daily activities. Because that kid took a growler in the pool, though, we had some extra time and Johnny Rockets was the place of choice simply because it was close and has grilled cheese.

The lunch was fine; service was good; atmosphere was as acceptable as a California-restaurant’s atmosphere can be. There was a guy sitting behind us who was running for city council, and apparently everyone knew because they all had to stop and gab with him about his race (having worked in politics and spent time with most of the politicians in the forefront of government today, I am usually unimpressed by such pomp and circumstance).

We were finishing up our lunch, though, and the check had just come, when all of a sudden the man sitting next to us let out the most uproarious, outrageously loud belch I have ever heard.

Now, I have heard some loud belches in my time. Growing up with just my father, burping was something regularly done in our house. My grandfather (my mother’s dad) still insists on saying the word belch while he does it in a room full of people. My husband – well, we all know he’s a pig.This guy at Johnny Rockets today, though, really took the cake.

What made it barf-worthy, though, was not the belch, itself. No, no, faithful blog followers. It was what he said afterwards to the guy he was lunching with – who, I might add, flinched not one bit at the guy saying it. What was it he said, you ask?

That belch tasted like rotten milk.

Fucking sick. I’ll be taking the Pookies elsewhere from now on if that is the kind of clientele that frequent our local Johnny Rockets.

Top 6 Reasons Your Hubs Ain’t All That

Multiple times during the week, now, I am woken by some sort of tragic event going on in my bed. Sometimes it’s my husband spreading out like the entire California King is needed to fan all of his parts – pushing me to the small edge on my side of the bed. Other times he is punching me in the back as he flops from one side to the next. Last night, it was the covers. Around 3:15 AM, he – for some reason, in his sleep – pulled the entire comforter off of me and bunched it up in front of him, leaving me to freeze.

As I lay there, angry and desperately trying to get back to sleep, I composed a blog all about husbands in my head.

Top 6 Reasons Your Hubs

Ain’t All That

#6 Home Becomes Work Becomes Home

Perhaps it is a sign of the crippling economy, but it seems that men can no longer come home from work and hang up their hats, leaving work hanging there with it. Now, when the Big Daddy Breadwinner gets home, he has to talk about work, think about work, let work interrupt his evening activities, check emails from work, answer phone calls about work, allow work to disrupt him from getting his house stuff done, and go to bed with nothing but work on his mind.

I’m all for the general “how was your day at the office, dear?” conversation over dinner. What the hell else are you going to talk about? But there is that and then there is taking it too far.

The fundamental problem with this is your husband is allowing work and his job to define who he is, rather than what the real definition of him is:  a conglomerate of many different things, which includes father, husband, friend, son, etc; not just “employee.” Perhaps this is just a California thing, where it seems as though everyone lets their jobs completely dictate their lives, but the old adage should always be kept in mind to keep a healthy work/life balance: it’s just a job.

#5 The Identity Crisis

A while back, I wrote a blog called “Stop Being Such a P*s*y.” I will never forget the response of one man in particular, who said that men are in the midst of an identity crisis as a result of smothering mothers, the Feminist Movement, and people like me calling them p*s*i*s

Bull shit.

A man isn’t a man because of the identity that he holds, the masculinity that he asserts, and his oppression of women. He’s a man because he has a dick. Period, end of sentence. It’s what he does with that Big D, though, that makes him either a real man or a p*s*y. But this incessant whining that in the last few decades women have oppressed men by demanding equal rights; and that men need to reclaim their masculinity by putting women down is just stupid.

And furthermore, if a woman is upset about something a man does – even her husband – she has a right to say it, wherever she wants. This doesn’t cut at the man’s masculinity; it is honesty with the intention of fixing an unhealthy behavior. I’m so tired of people acting like saying how things are is a bad thing. Your husband ain’t all that if he can’t take a little honest criticism. If a man is acting like a jerk, he’s acting like a jerk. He won’t know to fix it if no one tells him.

#4 Honey, You Married My Parents

My in-laws are coming over for dinner next week and I am again reminded that my husband is really his father and tries – routinely – to treat me the way he has observed his mother treated.

There is a reason why psychologists say you need to set a good example for your kids:  they will inevitably believe that this is an acceptable way to treat their spouse. If he doesn’t want to hear it, my husband’s dad will simply ignore and not respond to my mother-in-law. One time she was sitting there and she just kept asking question after question after question, all of which were ignored. I’ve seen it happen on more than one occasion, and when I talked to my husband about it he said “yeah, well that’s what you do when your wife is blathering on, spewing her emotion everywhere.”

Indeed.

Your hubs is just as much his parents as my hubs is, and he ain’t all that because of it. How he handles it, though, does redeem him.

#3 Feeding Time At the Barnyard

It is astounding sometimes to see the way that my husband eats. Here’s how it goes: I spend about three to six hours preparing a delectable, healthy, and perfectly seasoned meal. I hate to cook, so this is a really big deal for me to do every day, day in and day out. Nick comes home and promptly takes his plate, smothers it in a complete layer of salt and pepper, then sits down to inhale the food – periodically slurping it up; only to be disrupted with guzzling and slurping down whatever he’s drinking to wash the pig slob down.

Sometimes I think about just installing a trough.

I see men eat like this all the time, and quite frankly it is horrifying. Whatever happened to the days when a husband put his napkin in his lap? When he waited and tasted the food before piling it with seasonings? The days when “boy Mom, this sure is a swell meal” came out of his mouth? The slang swell should clue you faithful blog followers into how long it’s been; nonetheless, your husband would be all that if he would adopt such slang himself.

#2 Bodily Functions & Personal Hygiene

Gross. Gross. Gross.

Since graduate school ended and I took to being home all the time, I have become evermore aware of the bodily functions and personal hygiene we have in this house. My husband and your husbands alike all ain’t all that simply because they are pigslobs.

They miss the toilet, every time.

They wear underwear with gaping holes in them.

Which also have stains in them (I just vomited).

They have a never-ending case of foot fungus.

And as if that is not enough, they top it all off by laying around and scratching their balls nonstop; emitting bodily sounds intermittently as if “excuse me” is foreign to their vocabulary. And then they deny it all when you mention it.

#1 He’s Competing With A Million Other “Best Husband In the Whole Entire World LOL OMG ! ! ! ! ! !”

 If you are like me, every day you check your Facebook and are inundated with all your friends – God love them – posting on their Facebook statuses all about how their husbands are their heroes, their everything, and THE BEST HUSBANDS IN THE WHOLE ENTIRE WORLD LOL OMG ! ! ! ! ! !

I wrote a blog about this a while ago too, although I think it was far too logical. The crux of my argument was that:  obviously, everyone can’t have the best husband in the world because there can be only one “best” of anything. Far too intellectual, but if I were to continue I would say that obviously no one can have the best husband in the world because there are none.

As a result of this, though, your hubs ain’t all that because he is competing in this post-modern age of Feminism and people like me calling them p*s*i*s with other husbands to outdo each other, and live up to this “best husband in the whole world LOL OMG ! ! ! ! ! ! ” standard. So he does one of two things: (1) tries to outdo other husbands and becomes completely effeminate in the process; getting his floral thong in a bunch every time you admit any of his faults thereafter; or, (2) decides he cannot win and so does absolutely nothing. Mine falls into the latter category, and I know the majority of his friends are pulling their pink thongs out their asses right now in rage over the fact that I said it.

I’d have to argue that those are the top 6 reasons why your hubs ain’t all that. There are obviously more, like mommy issues and my afore-mentioned sleeping traumas. Like I said, I’m sure a lot of my husband’s friends will read this and complain how can you tolerate her saying those things in her blog? Well, because it’s all true. My hubs ain’t all that. Neither is yours. Neither are you.