Bad Wife! Bad, bad, wife!

Okay, so let me say this: I love my husband. Love, love, LOVE the Big Man. However, sometimes I do think things that I do not say. Oh, and after discussing this with a couple of my friends (who shall remain nameless) I know that I’m not the only one. Check this out:

Shutupshutupshutupshutup SHUT. UP.

I decided to stand over here where you are not standing. Why did you follow me?

Is his life insurance paid up? Cause I could live very well on that kind of cash.

What? What do you want now?

If I close my eyes and breathe really deep, maybe he’ll think I’m sleeping.

I don’t really have a headache. I’m not interested in sexytimes with you because I’m still turned off by that horrific garlic fart you cut after dinner.

So the only reason you’re upset is because I’m upset? I know we’re supposed to be one flesh and all, but that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.

Maybe if I don’t say anything, he won’t repeat that.  Oh, well. Guess I was wrong.

How can you be this cheap? How?

No, I don’t want to share my special snack with you.

When someone eats my special snack...
When someone eats my special snack…

We have lived in the same place for years. YEARS. How is it that you don’t know where anything is?

Yes, because grocery shopping is my idea of a good time. Wheeee!

This is what I get for marrying for love.

I’m not PMSing. I’m just telling you that so I can be horrible for the next few days. (I didn’t say this one, but by golly I might just do it.)

I’d run away but I have nowhere to go.

What the barnacles is that smell?

Because I think this show is stupid! I just watch it to hang out with you, but it’s really, really stupid and my eyes are actually rolling themselves.

Oh, you want me to stop reading and pay attention to you? I guess I can do that. (Ok, this one is me.)

Of course we love our significant others. Which is why we don’t say most of this out loud. Well, maybe I do, sometimes. Not the point. The point is, I dunno, love and such.

Did I miss any? Do share.


Baby got Back. Not what you think.

Happy Friday you guys!

Well happy for me, because my back and I made up and are friends again. Oh, I didn’t tell you that we got into it? Yeah. Now I have to tell you all about it. You shouldn’t have asked. You didn’t? Well, I’m pretending you did.

So a few days ago, I was all nice and cozy in my bed and I didn’t want to get up. Honestly, I never want to get up, but I have to do parenting and wifelike stuff, so I have to. But on this particular day, my Back didn’t want to get up either.

“We don’t have a choice.” I was nice at first.

“Listen, if you get up, you’ll be making a mistake.” Back tried to warn me. I took this warning lightly, thinking (foolishly) that I was the master of my body. Oh, how quickly I forgot about the Great Bean Dip Catastrophe.

“Look, Back, I have things to do. Get your stuff together and let’s go.”

I climbed out of bed and immediately bent double in pain. “What the green beans are you doing, Back?”

“I warned you. I’m fed up. You don’t exercise, I have to carry around those huge boobs all day–”

“Yeah!” came a tiny voice. “Shut up, shoulders,” I said.

Back continued, “And when I try to tell you that today is not a good day, you ignore me. I’m going on vacation.”

“Wait, whaaa? No, you can’t! Who’s going to replace you?”

“Oh, my friend Spasm.”

“Not Spasm. Anyone but Spasm. Please. I’ll change, I promise. I hate Spasm and Spasm hates me. I’m begging you—aaaauuugh!” Too late. Spasm had arrived. Time to fight.

So I hobble to the shower, thinking about how much Spasm hates warm water. Also, Nose hates it when I stink, so, two birds and all.

At first, it worked. Yes! Me:1 Spasm: aaaauuugh—shouldn’t have bent down to get that towel. So, Spasm:1.

When I tried to go downstairs, I was already cranky. Stupid Back. Then everyone wants to ask questions like “Are you okay?”or, “What’s wrong?” like they cared. So I gave the answer guaranteed to make everyone leave me alone: “Cramps”. Clears the room every time.

Spasm was starting to get really mean, though. I could barely walk. I tried stretching. Spasm laughed and then attacked me with what I am positive were lightening bolts. This was getting out of hand. I headed to Urgent Care.

Spasm and Mjolnir might be the same thing.
Spasm and Mjolnir might be the same thing.

Now, anyone who has ever been to Urgent Care knows that it should be called Care Four Hours From Now. So I’m sitting up in there with Spasm just going to town and not caring about my feeling at all for hours. But then.

The Dr. Comes in and she says the magic words: Muscle Relaxer. Awww, yeah.

An hour later, the pill kicks in and I’m all, “Take that, something about something, ZZZZZZ” Ah, sweet, sweet incoherence. Of course, this is when Back decided to return and act right.  I can’t win.

So anyway, that’s the super interesting thing that has been going on with me. Oh, and The Destroyer made Honor Roll. Which gives me hope that he won’t be a vagabond.

Six is the good life.

After being here for two weeks for winter vacation with my kids and not going insane—well, more insane—I’ve decided that Kid Sensation is on to something: being six is awesome. It must be the best thing ever, because when you’re six you get away with crap that no one else in the house does, which is pretty cool. Also, he’s awfully cute, so that helps.

That being said, Kid Sensation is kind of weird. Again, we forgive him all the weird ish he does because he’s six. (Well, the Big Man doesn’t, but that’s because they’re the same person.) So. As I list the stuff that ol’ K.S. Does, some of it you’ll compare to a normal six-year-old. Don’t. It’ll give you a headache.

He gives himself the thumbs up. All the time, not matter how shoddy his work is. I’ve gone to his room after he’s “cleaned it” and told him his work was garbage and that I was going to write him up for it. He gave himself a thumbs up behind my back, like I didn’t know what I was talking about. I had to restrain myself from physically pushing his thumb down. If I went around giving myself the thumbs up, I’d be committed.

He refuses to pronounce things correctly. I try to teach him, but he doesn’t care. I already told you about “unpossible”. (Typing that made me mad all over again. Unpossible. Hmph.) He freaked out one day about having to change in the truck because people were going to see him “maked.” Not “naked”, “make-ed”. Then when I try to tell him the right way to say it, he tells me, “Never mind that.” He does that all the time, like he can’t be bothered with proper English. I swear, if I mispronounce a word and someone corrects me, I am instantly shamed into saying it correctly for the rest of my life.

He brought the Big Man’s shirt downstairs and stomped on it because he was upset with him. That only means something to a six-year-old. You try doing that with a straight face.

Kid Sensation talks mad crazy to his dad. And anyone who has met this man knows that this is risky, at best. But again, being six means not getting beat into paste for being disrespectful to a 350-lb powerlifter. Although, having to put his head down is apparently just as bad.

When you’re six, it’s okay to cry when someone calls you names. Like, Kid Sensation was crying about something and Wondergirl called him a crybaby (he is). He cried about that. If someone calls me names I’m supposed to do things like “be the bigger person” and “not let it get to me”.

Except much, much less stoic.
Kid Sensation. Except  K.S. is much, much less stoic.

He silently points at his food. I don’t even know.

Kid Sensation would rather watch the special features than the movie. We let him get away with this because it keeps him quiet. I’m grown, and if I did that me and the Big Man would probably get into it. He’d be all, “Can we just watch the bleeping movie?!” and I’d be all “No! I need to hear how Mark Ruffalo felt the day they approached him to play the Hulk! I need this!”

I don’t know. I mean, being a grown up ain’t all bad. You know, coffee addiction and such. But being six seems kind of great too.

Oh, and is your kid as weird as mine? No? Fine.

Random Downton Thoughts. Trust me, you’ll like it.

So you guys, everyone who knows me knows that I love me some Downton Abbey. Okay, well, like two people outside of my immediate family know that. Not the point. The point is, I do and of course, like with everything else, I have random thoughts.It’s what I do. Don’t roll your eyes at me. Let’s do this. Well, go watch it if you haven’t and then let’s do this. (BTW, this is not a recap.  EVERYONE else does a recap of this show, and I’m positive they’re better at it.  This is just the random ish I think and say during the show.)

Avoiding people you don’t like is easy. It’s avoiding one’s friends that’s the real test.” So this came from the Queen of Shade herself, Dowager Countess Grantham. And it was so good because she was talking to her friend when she said it and it’s one of those kinds of things where you can’t tell if you should be offended or not but you definitely should. It takes years to get to that level of shade. She’s one of the reasons I can’t wait to be old(er) and horrible(r?).

So glad the dresses from the 1920s aren’t in now. I would look like a silky refrigerator with some pearls on.

BATES. Ok, so, the name Bates has to be said in low, ominous tones. Bates is the baddest valet in the world. Like, last season he found out that Tony Gillingham’s (we’ll get to him) valet attacked his wife and then straight up disappeared him. He may just be Alfred Pennyworth. BATES.

Don't tell ME he didn't just get finished handling some business.
Don’t tell ME he didn’t just get finished handling some business.

I’m also glad that pleats are not in. I hope pleats are never in again because when I think of things I want to look like, an open accordion isn’t one of them.

I like the word, “luncheon”.

A lot of people are getting cornered on the stairs. I think it’s rude.

Poor Edith doesn’t know what happened to her baby daddy. None of us do.

Zomygod Molesely is dying his hair! Is that…shoe polish? (This sent Wondergirl into gales of laughter.)

BATES wants a baby!

Awww shizzle. Carson and them got into the sherry.

Do I want arm length gloves? Yes, yes I do. Despite my upper arm fat.

Carson just punked Molesely about his hair so hard, y’all.

So Lord Tony Gillingham is back. He’s in love with Mary, but she turned him down last season. He’s handsome, rich, and charming. I mean, I know she was grieving and such, but still.

Countess Grantham punked Scrant. Again. His name is Scrant, though, so there’s that.

Oh, wait, wait, I think Mary and Gillingham might get together. Yay! And then later that night he went in her room and I was all Bow-chicka-wow-wown but that wasn’t the case at all.  My mind is in the gutter.

A FIRE!!! Oh no!

That’s it for this week. See y’all next week! Oh, and please let me know if I missed anything!