Bweh

You know what sucks?  When you don't rise to a level of importance that warrants more than an "I'm sorry" text message. 

That's what I got for Valentine's Day. 

Let me clarify.  I got beautiful flowers from my brother and a gorgeous rose from my dad.   The bullshit text is what I got from my dumbass, douche canoe of a husband.  And that text?  Way worse than just keeping his mouth shut or forgetting.  Why?  Because in stating his acknowledgement that this is the worst Valentine's Day ever he pretty much threw up the don't-give-a-fuck flag of who-gives-a-fuck, and that?  That hurts.

It hurts beyond belief.

We went to dinner with my parents on Saturday for Valentine's Day.  He forgot the stuff he was planning on giving me, and instead of taking one fucking hour out of his precious day yesterday to make me feel somewhat special on the one day a year you're supposed to do just that, he said he'll just give it to me Sunday--after he started with that bullshit text of it being the worst Valentine's ever.

If you know me at all, I don't ask for a lot, I don't expect a lot, and I sure as shit let the majority of shit slide, but this is the finest bullshit apathy can buy.  Period.

Don't get me wrong.  I don't care about the lack of gifts or anything of the sort.  It's the vehement disregard he has shown for me, and coincidentally our daughter, once again and I'm to the point where I don't want to keep sucking it up.  He had no problems taking the time to text his fucking family a picture of our daughter (the one below) for Valentine's Day to make them happy--why don't I get that same fucking courtesy?  WHY?!  Why am I never worth it?  In his words, it took two seconds to text them a picture.  So?! Why does my life have to revolve around his convenience?

I do everything.  I work, I play single mom, I cook, I clean, I take care of the dogs.  All he has to do is finish remodeling our house, which has taken 6 fucking months, and even then he still complains about how tired HE is and how hard it is on HIM.  I don't fucking matter to the son of a bitch, and yes his mom is a bitch.  I have half a piece of mind to write the bitch and ask her how she can even consider herself a mother knowing she raised such a selfish, inconsiderate, unappreciative ass clown.  And trust me, she says "Oh, I know my son" all the time--so she knows. 

I'm sick and tired of going out of my way to make the asshole happy.  I didn't have to wake up at 6am on a Saturday to make him Cinnamon Toast Crunch cupcakes, heart shaped pink Rice Krispy treats, and lasagna so I could give it to him Saturday (or any day really), but I did and I do to make him feel special and to show I care.  All he's done is work on the fucking house and walk around like that's the biggest contribution to our relationship. I understand this house has turned into his labor of love, but enough already and come the fuck on.  What's worse is he actually thinks us living together as an actual family again will fix things. 

It won't.

And I'm getting to the point where I won't be able to put the pieces of my heart back together for a lather, rinse, repeat of this nature.

Happy Valentine's Day!!

Yea, I said it.

First off, what the fucking fuck?  I say that with all sincerity knowing full well that as a mom I should watch what falls out of my mouth for wee ones are like sponges and absorb everything and thus repeat everything but I'm almost 100% certain my child's first word will be fuck to begin with so fuck it. 

So, I repeat--what the fucking fuck?!  I've been working out religiously for about a month, eating 1300-1500 calories per day religiously for a month, and my scale hasn't budged.  Seriously?!  SERIOUSLY?!  I mean sure, I feel so much better, my clothes fit much better, and I lost a few inches here and there, but c'mon!

I know, I know--it's all about how you feel, how you look, how clothes fit, but would it kill my scale to budge slightly?!  Even like a half a pound?  Uch!

Great, glad we got that out of the way. Now onto the regularly scheduled program of no rhyme or reason.

It's about that time again.

Yes, yes it is.  It's about that time wherein I get all gung-ho and psycho about trying for child number two.  I've dusted off the fertility monitor, I've started up the BBT again, and I'm ramping up my vigilant watch of ovulation cues all in preparation for the end of March where it's game on.

But....

It turns out that the lovely massage-filled Sunday He-Rizzle and I had on February 5th as a pre-Valentines-shit-is-to-expensive-on-the-actual-day date may have helped my cause along.  By the way, awesome date huh?  Massage and the Superbowl.  Yea, my husband is one lucky guy.  Anyway, the stars aligned somewhat in that I actually ovulated that day, and I actually got laid that day, and now I'm all wondering if maybe, possibly, perchance, there's severe nausea, back pain, and another panic attack on a c-section table in my not so distant future.

I know the odds are highly against me.  It took almost two years to get pregnant with wee-rizzle and a few miscarriages as well, so I'm really not holding my breath.  However, the fact EVERYTHING is a damn pregnancy symptom isn't helping.

Like I said, I know I'm not that lucky....but?  What if?  I'm trying not to get my hopes up, but I'm a glutton for disappointment; thus, allowing my feeble little mind to wander on over in that direction.  I guess I'll know soon enough.

Blah

I hate massages.

No really, I do.  I know, that seems so wrong on a number of levels, especially given the fact that along with the hating massages, I also am not a fan of manicures, facials, or anything really having to do with a spa.  I tolerate pedicures mostly because, c'mon, it's a pain in the ass to cut your own toe nails and make them cute, but I don't enjoy them like some women do.  Even when I was pregnant, the only reason I got a pedicure was to get my toe nails cut by someone who wasn't my husband because Wee-rizzle sat so damn low I couldn't lean forward enough to even see my toes. Even then, with tired little tootsies, I didn't really enjoy it. 

Bottom line, it always seems so awkward to me.  Always.  I'm not a big small talker, in fact I'm awful at small talk, and I'm a fairly quiet person to begin with if I don't know you in some way.  I've been going to my hair stylist for 6 months now, and I just started talking to the guy rather than just sit there quietly. 

I always feel like the biggest bitch in the world sitting there working, answering emails, or playing a game on my phone while some poor woman is upkeeping my own personal hygiene for one of the most foul body parts on the human body--feet.  Or even if it's my hands, which are pretty nice, I feel weird.   And massages?  Yea, for some reason I can't seem to get into that relaxed state when the only thing that's separating entirely naked me from someone who is not my husband or a doctor is a thin sheet.  Call me crazy.  It's all I can focus on throughtout the entire thing and I keep waiting for that little sheet to slip and there are my tits, ass, or vag, or the entire trifecta, hanging out for some total stranger to see in all it's glory. 

Yes, I'm aware I have issues and I'm insane.

So why am I bringing all this up?  For Valentine's Day I'm surprising He-rizzle with a massage because I thnk he deserves one for all the hard work he's been doing remodeling our house.  Not just any massage.  A couples massage.  Not just any couples massage, a 90 minute Hot Poultice Thai Massage with a 30 minute soak in  a vitality herbal bath to recharge energy and balance body and mind--of course knowing my husband he'll try to get all frisky in the bath instead of relaxing.  Here's the description of the massage:

Drift away tensions while enjoying this unforgettable hot poultice massage. Authentic and unchanged since the 14th century, this amazing ritual incorporates one of our three indigenous organic herbal poultice blends for your specific needs (Samunprai- for Detoxification, Indigo-for Healing, or Kamatan-for Deep Relaxation). Acupressure is used to open all the energy channels, followed by massaging the deep medicinal heat of the poultice into the muscles to release tensions and revitalize your mind. then we seal all the energy of this treatments with a hands on oil massage. Take your body on a journey of total renewal.

Sounds lovely, right?  Sounds like heaven on a massage table, right?  Yup, does nothing for me.  I read it and go "huh" and then put on my He-rizzle hat and ask myself would he like it, to which the answer is "Oh hell yes!" and then I proceed with booking it  And it's not like I can just send him because then he feels all guilty and shitty about going and being pampered while I sit at home and conquer some task because I'm physically incapable of relaxing, and that's the one thing my husband wants me to do is relax.  Thus, I must partake as well because even after all these years He-rizzle still doesn't believe me when I say I hate massages and thinks I don't want to partake because I'd rather finish my to-do list than actually do something for myself, which is totally true, but massages really do nothing for me.

I will say, though, I'm beyond excited to sit in the relaxation room with some crappy tabloid fodder magazine and sit in total silence while He-rizzle goes into the sauna (yea, shocking, I hate those too!), and just be for 20 minutes. 

Now that?  That sounds like heaven.