My husband is a saint. I am a flighty, demanding and overbearing pain in the arse with absolutely no filter who shares much of our personal life on the internet. Does he complain? Never. I lay in bed this morning, after he diligently made his way to work and surveyed the bombsite that is our bedroom. If North Korea or the USA want to send threatening photos to one another, I may be able to provide a few harrowing examples without leaving my bedroom. I considered how patient he is about the whole situation and pondered on what a disappointment I’ve been in general. I felt like a bit of a hypocrite for trashing http://www.wish.com on my facebook page yesterday on the basis that the shite they deliver is nothing like  what they advertise on the site but I suppose I’m just as guilty of false advertising. The ladylike angel that Sean met 11 years ago is absolutely nothing like the ogre he now shares a life with. I lay there considering everything that has changed in the last decade and I felt sort of bad about it. Then he rang me to ask how I was doing and I got a bit irked because he interrupted my reverie. He can be so irritating like that. I’m wondering if I am alone in my deceitful nature or whether this is a ‘girl thing’?

Periods used to be a private issue. Something we made sure went by without notice or comment. It’s a bit ridiculous really. We gain 5 pounds in 24 hours. Our vajayjays hemorrhage for up to a week. We’re forced to give ourselves a cotton suppository and wear a nappy until further notice. However, when our new boyfriends knock impatiently on the bathroom door, demanding to know whats up with us, we claim we’re waiting on our nail varnish to set . It may sound peaceful and serene from his side but from where we are sitting, it looks like Dexter, Ramsay Bolton and the entire charter of SAMCRO have gone ten rounds in the general vicinity of our toilet and we need to deal with the situation before Dracula and his Brides come knocking. A few months down the line and we are sending him to Tesco on junk food and tampon runs and if he dares to deny us, we will give him a blow by blow account of the homicide that is occurring in our pants and call him out on being an all around insensitive b*****d.

When did I stop fake tanning? During the honeymoon phase, I was blinded by love and a desire to be irresistible to my significant other. He will never truly appreciate the contortions I executed in order to fool him into thinking I was of Egyptian descent. I was like a tanning ninja, slinking stealthily into the bathroom at first light, causing permanent disc damage in a frantic effort to cover the hard to reach blue areas and cleaning away any evidence of artificial bronzing.  A couple of years later and  I honestly can’t remember the last time my torso saw a tanning mitt. I swoosh a dollop of Cocoa Brown over my arms, neck and ankles and I’m pretty much good to go. My poor husband was seduced by a Persian princess who somehow morphed into a piebald pony over time. I remember being involved in a steamy college relationship and my former boyfriend was staring adoringly at my golden form, whispering, “You’re so beautiful” I  didn’t get to savour the moment because I was busy panicking over the fact that my arse and shoulders were making an unsightly, me-shaped, brown body stamp on his lovely white bed linen and to an ignorant male eye, it could be mistaken for excrement. I was mortified at the thought of getting my Sun Shimmer on his bedclothes. These days our bathroom looks like the H Block in Long Kesh during the dirty protest era.

dirty_protest

When I first met Sean, I was like a camel. If he called over to my flat, I used to have to wait until he left before taking a pee or poo.  I could sit there for hours, pretending to take an interest in his exaggerated stories and sipping my drink like I didn’t have a care in the world. By the time he left, the pee was ready to sweat out my pores and I felt like my intestines had been tied in a french braid but a few kidney stones and a touch of diverticulitis would be a small price to pay for true love. He lived in blissful ignorance of the fact that I was indeed a fully functioning human. Childbirth soon took care of that. These days it’s no holds barred (or holes in this this case). He is privy to regular updates on the side effects of my gluten intolerance and is often treated to the sight of his wife straddling the radiators (literally riding them), desperately seeking some sort of heat relief during UTI season. Our old toilet malfunctioned after house renovations back in 2007 and the poor fella had to get gloved up and remove a floater so he could work on it.(The toilet that is,. Not my turd) We conceived our 2nd child after this event. That’s not a husband. That’s a hero.

toilet

 

And then of course there’s my mothering. When my son was a toddler I used to spend at least an hour scrubbing him and dressing him up. He would greet his Dad in the evening, high on steamed vegetables and exuding confidence and wisdom after a hard day of jigsaws, craft and educational stimulation, compliments of his enthusiastic mummy. He looked like a Von Trapp. It’s 4pm and my kids haven’t been out of their PJs since Tuesday. I can see that my son dropped some of the juice from his Koka noodles on the front of his dressing gown and I know that we ran out of noodles yesterday. The stain has turned crusty so I should be able to get it off with my nail. If he wandered into a refugee camp in some war torn country, Sky News would not be able to tell the difference.

It’s pretty tragic really. I keep planning to make more of an effort to emulate the likes of Cheryl and Angelina but something always seems to get in the way…like eating or Netflix. I will definitely paint my toenails and sand off some of the callous on my heel by the end of the week and perhaps I’ll throw a bloo-loo in the toilet cistern so he knows I’m not getting complacent.The kids and I have made plans to leave the house tomorrow. It’s a big sacrifice to make for the long suffering husband but I guess he might be worth it.

junk food

 

 

 

 

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