So, I applied for this job type thing.

Now, don't go getting your organic cotton panties all in a bunch. I'm not abandoning anybody. I'm not changing the blog name to go-to-work-mayhem or anything. So relax, put down the poisoned Kool-aid and come give me a hug.

There, there.

Not only am I probably one of hundreds of applicants and thus am unlikely to make it beyond this point, but it's a work-at-home job anyway. You know, a jammy-wearing, coffee slurping, Oprah-watching job. I would get to do something I'm excellent at: Blogging for the masses. I've been doing that for about three years, but now I'd actually get paid.

Hey. What did I say two paragraphs ago? Drop the Pink Swimmingo and dry those eyes. Even on the slightest chance that I actually do land this fantastic job, I'm not going to stop posting here. This is the only place where I can write stuff that borders on offensive and yet increase my readership. It's like the Bermuda Triangle of the blogosphere.

This is where I take a really bad month/week/day/cup of coffee and turn it into something resembling humorous.

This is where I refer to my children as "gremlins" and mysteriously get told I'm an incredible mother anyway.

This is where I freely speak of bovine insemination as a job I would not want to do, and learn from a friend raised on a dairy farm that you use something called a 'Pro-Jac to knock those cattle up.

Tempting, but I think I'll leave the fun to the farmers.

I'm staying right here. This new job, if I were to miraculously land it, would not allow me to be overly verbose, incredibly vain and consistently whiny. Those are qualities I can only show off here. And, if there's anything I know about being a stay-at-home-mom, it's that we need a venting spot.

There is little in this world that could pry me away from my house for 40+ hours every week. I suppose that might have to change when I'm World President, but that won't be for at least ten more years. In the meantime, I like being home with my darling gremlins. Sure, they strip most of the serenity from my daily existence, but they do it in such a cute way that it's hard to be angry.

Anyway, I'm going to tear my nervewracked mind away from potential employment and instead focus on something I completely forgot about until about two hours ago: My anniversary.

Well, one of my anniversaries. The first date one. The one that made all the magic and eventual procreation happen. The important one, as we call it. And I forgot about it. And yes, when my husband walked in with a bouquet of flowers and a kiss I realized what a classic role reversal we've created.

How did I become the guy in this situation? I'll explain myself: This morning I sent two gremlins off to school, did groceries in a very crowded store with Pixie and three of our children, came home, spoke with my neighbour who was having a bad day, put some of the groceries away while comforting a very upset Spawnling who had just woken up from a cat nap, carried him in my arms while I put away the rest of the groceries, took in E-man and his baby sister while their mom went to work, carried around a tired little baby until she fell asleep, cleaned up a poop accident, rescued Spawnling from the top bunk (those last last things were done simultaneously, I might add), welcomed three of Inrepid's pre-teen friends into the house, drove the daycare kids back to their place, came home and made four pizzas for six children and two adults, broke up arguments, asked them nicely to stop playing "purple nurple", cleaned up a water disaster (thanks, Spawn), had to sit down because I had literally been standing 90% of the day...

.. And that is why I forgot my damn anniversary, alright?

Also, I should humbly add that I spoke to my husband online and on the phone on more than one occasion and, instead of wishing him a happy anniversary, I asked him to pick up root beer on the way home.

I am a very bad wife.

The good thing about this situation is that he's a guy and therefore doesn't really mind that I forgot about our fateful meeting sixteen years ago. He doesn't expect flowers and he doesn't hold in a battallion of hurtful words to unleash either in a catastrophic meltdown or very slowly in the most passive aggressive ways possible. Thank goodness for that. I don't know how men can put up with us. It must be because we have pretty hair and smell nice.

There's something I can do for him later, after the pre-teen posse leaves and our gremlins are tuckered out and in their pods for the night. Something very naughty and delightful. Something he will appreciate much more than flowers or a wife who remembers important dates.

Butterscotch ice cream.

Yummy.

Happy anniversary to the man who has put up with me for exactly half my life. How on earth does he do it?