Not really feeling like posting tonight

But I know if I don't I'll have to write that I didn't go into labour. Although after today I probably could have.

Suffice to say, the gremlins and I went to the cottage of family members. It was... interesting. I shall post more tomorrow.

I'm way too tired and grumpy to write more at the moment. My contractions have died down and we're safely home and nearly all asleep. That's the good news, right?

RIGHT!?

Remind me again why I don't drink? That pregnancy thing and... what? Al-ko-haw-lizm? Riiiight. Gotcha.

Goodnight.

I'm not currently having a baby.

It's still way too early for me to be popping out my baby (how I wish I could 'pop' out anything that weighs as much as a small Thanksgiving turkey), but I figured I should mention it since I hadn't posted since Wednesday. I take full responsibility for my lack of blogging.

My mother called me not once, but twice today to ask where my entries are for yesterday and today. I've created a monster.

The thing is (mother), I've had two days that would normally be fairly low key, but because I'm in the final stretch of InUtero Boy's gestational period I pretty much find anything more than blinking to be tiring. I get home after sitting around at someone's house and I'm ready to take a nap. Who knew that putting my feet up at Mrs. Wailing's (where we spent the afternoon yesterday) could be coma-inducing upon arriving home? I suspect she's slipping drugs into my ice water. That's probably why her baby is so mellow. I'll have to keep an eye on that one.

Today was another friend's birthday. A brave friend who is raising a teenager. Yes, she has one of those loud, obtrusive, yelling things that stomps around and slams doors. Well, this is the theory, anyway. I haven't had the pleasure of meeting her daughter yet, but I have seen pictures and she's always smiling and looks really sweet. Surely she can't be that bad.

Personally, I don't buy into the horror stories about teenagers having attitude. That's something more seasoned parents tell us less-experienced folk so that we can admire them and think that they've earned their parenting merit badges. Obviously, my spawnlings will be polite, thoughtful and considerate between the ages of 13 and 20. They'll help old ladies cross the street, load groceries into the trunks of pregnant strangers' cars and volunteer in empoverished African countries over the summer months. They'll write poetry instead of having sex, enjoy a good classical outdoor concert instead of tuning out the world on their iPods, and won't taste a sip of alcohol until they're of legal age.

Of course, they'll do all this because I'm an amazing parent with just the right balance of love and discipline. People like me raise upstanding citizens who care about the world around them. Not bratty, self-centered teens.

(Incidentally, I've been interrupted this entire post because Gutsy wants Intrepid to play with him, but Intrepid doesn't want to because he's drawing, and Gutsy's upset so he's yelling at Intrepid, who's poking Gutsy, and both are coming to me one at a time to tell on the other one. Naturally, this has no reflection on their future teen years nor my incredible parenting skills. This is all genetics at play. When they behave themselves, that's my parenting shining through.)

*sigh*

Why is parenting so difficult? Why?! Why is it you don't need a license to be one? If there were a test I would have failed it miserably and then I wouldn't be wondering how I screw up so much. I'd be able to say 'Well, I guess I wasn't cut out to be a parent' instead of 'Ok, I am now a mother and I have to figure out how NOT to screw up my children for life.'

(Incidentally, while writing that paragraph, I was interrupted several times because I asked the gremlins to clean the playroom and had to deal with vehement 'no!'s from Gutsy and 'I hurt my foot!' and 'MoooOoOoOooom! He's not cleaning up!' comments from Intrepid.)

I admit to having engaged in 'mommy wars' like breastfeeding vs. formula feeding, staying at home vs. working outside the home, circumsizing vs. not circumsizing... and you know what I've concluded? Everyone knows they're a massive screw up in some ways, so we have to find something we believe we're doing right and construct this big pedestal upon which to stand and frown at all the people who are, in our opinions, doing that one thing horribly wrong. It makes us feel better about all the things we fear we're messing up on. Things like, oh, I don't know, not wanting to move out a computer chair and actually deal with a fight between two children because we're eight months pregnant and tired.

(Incidentally, I took a break after that last sentence, removed my giant rump from the computer chair and went off to help my children sign a peace treaty and show them exactly what I wanted cleaned up in the playroom.)

I know I did some things right for my family. I breastfeed my babies because I know it's good for them and for me. I stay home with them because I know that, despite my fumbles, I'm the best for the job and our financial situation allows me to do so with minimal stress. We circumsized our first child but not our second and feel we made a more informed decision the second time. But none of these things make me a perfect parent and none will guarantee that my children will be the nicest, smartest, happiest children and adults. In the end, they're likely to remember the times I yelled just as much as the times I hugged them. I only half-joke when I talk about rolling their education savings plans into therapy funds.

Gutsy starts preschool this fall and a part of me dreads it. I worry about how he's going to behave and, in true Maven self-centered fashion, how that will reflect on me and my parenting. I know I'm not the only one who passes judgement on others. However, my (wrinkled, stretch-marked) skin is thicker than it used to be when Intrepid was this age and I know I can handle it more gracefully. Also, having been someone who looks down on people, I know that it usually comes from a place of deep insecurity.

So, in short, if someone judges me, I can feel sorry for them because they're insecure. Then I can feel knowledgeable because I've been-there-done-that, and therefore be in a superior position and look down on them. Problem solved.

Good lesson, isn't it? It's a wonder I don't have my own mountain to sit on where people can ask me important life questions.

Pardon my mouthful of bon-bons

What I thought would be chaos ended up being anything but. I love surprises. Well, good ones anyway. Hearing 'Mom! There's a mouse head in the front yard and if you look closely you can see its brain!' (true story) isn't my favourite type of surprise.

Gutsy had a hearing test this morning in which he cooperated. I had to stop and think about how that word is spelled, because I don't get a chance to use it very often. It's normally replaced with antonyms like 'disobeyed' and 'brought chaos unto the world like the demon spawn he is'. I'm happy to report that his hearing hasn't changed and we may be provided with an amplified phone so the gremlins can learn phone skills. This is great, because even nine-year-old intrepid knows nothing of telecommunication etiquette. It's hard to learn how to be polite on the telephone when all you hear is a muffled, distant voice. I used to do drugs and I'm guessing it's similar to some of my worst (best?) experiences.

Next, we picked up Astarte and Big G and headed to a large, indoor play area at her suggestion. It was her first time there and at least my 10th. I winced at the thought of going, but figured it made the most sense with three active boys. Besides, I promised them we were going before fully thinking it through. That would have involved clear thought, which I'm not very good at on a good day, let alone while growing a 50 pound, mutant baby.

While the noise pollution from the swarm of screaming children was anything but pleasant, the company more than made up for it. Big G had found heaven in the shape of endless tunnels, while Gutsy was far more apprehensive. He clung to his big brother for dear life most of the time and spent the remainder sitting in the restaurant area with us boring, old moms. Astarte treated us to pizza and drinks, then took Gutsy to the game area so he could win some tickets and claim a prize. I have a feeling she did most of the playing, because he ended up walking out of there with a fireman's hat and two rings (he later turned them into a 'spacesuit' and built a 'spaceship' with some children's furniture - did I mention I need a camera?)

All this happened while I was told to put my feet up and relax. What's up with people who want me to relax? I sit at home and eat bon-bons all day, you know. That's what stay-at-home-moms do. We're lazy to the extreme, except when we do ourselves up bigger than a Vegas show girl to hit the gym and our scrapbook meets.

Speaking of which, I came home and put my feet up some more. Putting my feet up outside the home is exhausting, apparently. Heck, breathing is exhausting lately, too. I didn't eat any bon-bons, but I did watch Dr. Phil tell this scary, controlling fiance and father that he wasn't crazy, he just needed help.

Dr. Phil, have you lost your mind? The guy is about as stable as a pyramid turned upside down. Didn't you see his scary eyes? Those are psychotic peepers, dude. He looks like Billy Corgan after finding out how little people think of his solo career. Then again, Robin is kind of scary, too, so you might be binded. Who can blame you? Every time she smiles with those veneers I lose a little bit of my eyesight. I should start wearing glasses to watch the last few minutes of your show. As it is, I boycott any 'Dr. Phil and Robin' episodes because she still hasn't learned to read from a teleprompter.

If there is a Hell, Robin is going to meet me there and kick my ass, isn't she?

Anyway, I then made a very creative dinner. I tend to do this the last couple of days before Geekster gets paid. It's the home stretch and the food budget is tight. I made chicken breast simmered in a peanut, coconut milk and curry sauce, coupled with a wild and brown rice mix and some curried veggies. I believe my children loathed me just a little bit more when I handed them their plates, but the husband and I enjoyed it tremendously.

No constantly hungry pregnant woman eats dinner without desert, so I whipped up a batch of chocolate chip cookies and some decaf coffee, then settled in for Rockstar: Supernova to see the war of the egos. These people really think they're all that and a bag of crack. No wonder I once wanted to be a rockstar.

Oh, and a bit of irony: we applied for a handicapped subsidy from the provincial government for both Intrepid and Gutsy. I received a call regarding Intrepid's file. Apparently, he's being turned down because he's not currently in speech therapy. Why isn't he in speech therapy? Because he was receiving government-funded therapy for a few weeks up until the one speech therapist who worked with anglophone children (we live in Quebec, which is quite french) went on maternity leave. Meanwhile, Gutsy gets an assessment with another, anglophone-friendly speech therapist, but when I ask her about Intrepid she tells me that she's not able to see him or continue with Gutsy as of this week, because she's moving to another position and the old therapist is still on maternity leave until 2007.

Sooo... Basically Intrepid doesn't get a subsidy because he's not receiving speech therapy. He's not receiving speech therapy because the government has no one available to work with him.

Our only option is to do private therapy sessions and get a letter from the therapist, then appeal the denial.

This is where I get pissed off at the system. We pay a huge amount of tax in Canada and moreso in this province than most others. I never complain about the tax we pay, because I'm a firm believer in health benefits for all. However, we're not getting the services we pay for AND they won't give us a subsidy that would only cover maybe an hour of speech per month. Most children need more than that. Many people don't have supplemental insurance. We're fortunate that Geekster's plan through work will pay 100% of the therapy costs at an unlimited amount (we just found this out today), so this won't be a problem for our children. But when I think about the many children out there who aren't getting the help they need due to the misuse of government funds, it makes me want to go preggo postal on the idiot who came up with these guidelines.

Treat people equally and stop making the gap between the haves and have-nots even larger. All children have the right to learn and be able to communicate with the world.

I believe that children are the future. Teach them well and let them lead the way. Also, don't marry Bobby Brown and turn your mansion into a coke house, because it'll likely ruin your looks, your voice and make you look like a foolio to the extreme.

Naturally, you must agree with me. I'm right about these things, as I am about pretty much everything.

You can text your vote for The Maven at 555-EGO-ROCK. Lines are open now.

InUtero Boy, or The Thing That Ate My Waist

Severe props to Astarte, who accompanied me on my sandwich run yesterday so I could get my fix and also gave me a footrub! I'm proud to say I ate the entire sandwich (but not all the fries) and enjoyed it tremendously. It was like sex in a paper-covered basket. Greasy goodness that still leaves me salivating when I think about it. I was up until nearly 2am with a big smile on my face.

Speaking of things that eat my waist, it's time to update on InUtero Boy. After a six week hiatus (my doctor took quite a lenghtly vacation, I must say), Gutsy and I went to my 33 week prenatal appointment.

The good news: The boy is in a great head-down position, is engaged in the pelvis and has a strong heartbeat (which I knew, because I still have my rented doppler and admit to checking on him once a week). This would explain the hooha pain when I walk or do anything else that should be perfectly pain-free. How long until my due date again?

The to-be-expected-but-still-makes-me-wince-a-little news: I put on ten pounds in the last six weeks, and it's not because I'm swollen anywhere or packing on some extra layers for winter, despite my late-night sandwich run and Second Dinners. I'm measuring nearly four weeks ahead, meaning that a third 10lb baby is most likely in my future. He feels enormous to the touch, too. Major pat on the back for The Maven for my anticipatory refusal to buy any newborn diapers or clothes. I may be dumb, but I'm also cheap and I know my babies.

Doctor D doesn't think I'll go to 40 weeks and neither do I (although I promise to eat my words in between desperate sobs if I do go beyond my due date). He's quite low now, although not alarmingly so. I'm having several braxton-hicks contractions per day, which I didn't get until about 36 weeks with Gutsy. I had none with Intrepid that I remember. My water broke with Gutsy at 38 weeks, while Intrepid was induced at 39 weeks. I try to forget about that whole induction thing and focus on the one that wanted to come out two weeks before his due date. It's gentler on my fragile emotional state.

So that's the update on the Unborn Spawn of Maven. Let's all think 38 week vibes. There's a coffee in it for you, or at least a cyber hug.

***

In other news, Intrepid had another performance today, although I wasn't able to attend due to my appointment. Geekster brought him to it, ate complementary pizza with the band after the gig and then took the superstah on some rides. It was pure torture for my poor nine-year-old to go to the Ex with me last week. Pregnant mothers are no fun.

After my prenatal, Gutsy and I headed off for a visit with The Madre and co. We ate deliciously fattening foods from the casse-croute (read: french name for burger and fry joint), including poutine (fries, cheese and gravy). Did I mention that this was after I spent a few minutes with my uncle in the waiting room at the clinic while he told me all about his heart attack two weeks ago?

I think my actions today earn me about 10 points off the ol' I.Q.

***

Finally, a conversation with Intrepid from yesterday:

Intrepid: Gutsy and I have started a band! Do you want to come to the concert?
Me: Sure! I'd love to.
Intrepid: Great. I'll make you up a ticket. We're calling ourselves 'The Laids'.
Me: ... The... The Wades?
Intrepid: No. The LAIDS.
Me: ... Oh. Hmm. neat... name.

Intrepid runs off to make me a ticket. Meanwhile, I'm pondering the name and the origins thereof. I decide they must be doing some serious wishful, forward thinking. They are male, after all.

Intrepid hands me a ticket: "Special Event: The Lades".

Now I'm wondering if he just mispelled a very valuable word in the male teen dictionary, or if this was some strange coincidence. I'm going with coincidence, but will be writing this one down for a future wedding speech.

Can't talk. Need late night sandwich fix.

I must say, I rather like this blue. I picked it on the fly but it's really quite nice on the eyes, isn't it? Soothing. And goodness knows I need anything remotely soothing lately.

Speaking of which, I wrote the following earlier:

I want to say 'Looks like it's not going to be such a bad day after all', but I know I'll eat those words in a few hours.

I just wanted to say that I was right. Normally this would be cause for celebration, but in this case it isn't and in fact nearly brought me to tears. Intrepid is dying to go back to school and it shows. He's tormenting Gutsy in new and interesting ways that would be far more subtle if he knew how loud his whispers are to the non-hearing-impaired. He truly believes he's being quiet while teasing his brother. It's adorable in its own, annoying way.

Meanwhile, Gutsy has decided that screaming at the top of his lungs about absolutely every injustice is what will win him friends and influence people. It's winning him annoyed family members and influencing my brain to snap completely. A girl can only handle so much screaming in a day.

And, just so you know, yelling 'Stop screaming!', no matter how appropriate it seems at hte time, accomplishes nothing. That's a gift of parenting knowledge from me to you.

I think the camping trip a couple of weeks ago has thrown Gutsy into a new stage of independence. He's being a little stinker because he's also sprouting his wings (and horns...). In the last couple of days, he's shown me he knows his left from his right - and not just his hands, but his feet, ears and eyes, and can direct me to grandma's house by saying 'turn right. Now we turn left...'

He's also rhyming words. Although not all the words are, erm, real. He'll say things like 'Stair and hair are matching words... Page and stage are matching words, too... Paint and staint, coffee and stoffee, backyard and stackyard are matching, too!' It's hilarious. He has the right concept, he just has to learn that the words need to make sense. If Dr. Seuss were alive and on heavy narcotics, he and Gutsy would have some very interesting brainstorming ideas for books.

I'd post more, but I have an enormous craving for a specific sandwich at a specific restaurant that is thankfully open 24 hours a day. I'm going to pick up Astarte and head down there. When I'm blurry eyed and exhausted in the morning I'll make sure to post some more, make a bunch of typos and have you people laugh at me. See? There's something in it for you, too.

Surprise!

No, your eyes do not deceive you. I really am that strikingly beautiful and the blog really is blue. I'm glad I could help clear those things up for you.

You'd think I could get more creative and change the template to something original, but I just can't bring myself to think outside the box right now. Maybe one day, but not today. It's Monday, after all, and I had very little sleep last night. Frankly, I'm impressed I can spell 'frankly', let alone change a generic template.

I'll post more about how the day's going in a little while, once I mess around with settings a bit more. We're playing Whack the Cervix at the moment, which isn't quite as painful when I'm sitting down . I'm drinking decaf coffee from my coffee maker and it isn't weak. In fact, it was sort of strong and I had to add some water to it. There is a god and he or she is not always laughing at me. In fact, I think someone is taking pity on me today after yesterday's pathetic post.

I want to say 'Looks like it's not going to be such a bad day after all', but I know I'll eat those words in a few hours.

Caution: Major Whinefest. Please bring cheese.

I like old cheddar or gouda, if I can pick which one you bring to my pity party. In little cubes with crackers and paté, please.

Life is a cruel mistress. Or poolboy. Or something. Actually, if life were having an affair with me, it would have run in the opposite direction by now, because I'm starting to feel absolutely miserable.

I promised myself - promised! - that I wouldn't succumb to the last few weeks of 'get this baby the hell out of me and I mean right now' hysteria like I have the last two times. This is my third pregnancy. I'm a superwoman. I'm a successful alumni. I'm a decorated veteran, for goodness sakes. I have purple hearts of courage in the form of scars and stretch marks and other unmentionables. This was a surprise pregnancy, too. I truly thought my body had shut down the egg division to make the shareholders happy, yet, lo and behold, a second line on a pee stick changed my life in ways that are supposed to be purely joyous. There's no room for complaining when you're grateful, right? RIGHT?!

I made it past the puking stage. I only had one breakdown, boo-hoo-suck-it-up cryfest in all those weeks of swirling insides. When that passed, I told myself that it would all be downhill from there. What's worse than hating all food and setting up a temporary shelter in the bathroom, anyway?

I'll tell you what's worse: being nearly 33 weeks pregnant, hating life and all that it encompasses, that's what. It appears Ms. Positivity is slumming it in Bringdown Land. Population: 1 melancholy pregnant woman who is too sore to move, let alone breathe half the time.

The proverbial pool noodle up my hooha makes it virtually impossible to enjoy doing anything that involves the legs moving independently. That includes getting out of bed, putting on or taking off pants, getting in or out of a vehicle, crossing my legs, climbing stairs or, oh yeah, walking.

While the in-laws were in town this weekend, we ate brunch just behind where Geekster works. I thought it would be a nice idea to point out the building, as they'd never seen it before. What I mean by 'point out the building' is to walk around the side of the strip mall and say 'Look, everyone! That's where Geekster works! Ok, take a picture or something and we can go.'

Apparently 'point out the building' in the Geekster English Dictionary means 'Let's walk over to the enormous complex I call work and then around the entire thing, which a lot of people do once or twice during lunch because it's good cardio'.

'Good cardio' for most people equals 'I'm about to keel over in agony' for vastly pregnant women. Not to mention that InUtero Boy has found a new and exciting game: Whack the Cervix. In this game, the baby uses whatever body part is closest and hits this very sensitive area with all his or her might. I found out that there's a special bonus when the mother is walking around a giant building: her knees give in and she practically falls over in pain. I bet he scores a lot of points for that.

So yes, I'm getting to the point of incomprehensible discomfort. Mother nature is terrible, because she makes us forget just how awful these last few weeks can be. While I'm not in a hurry for him to come out, I certainly wouldn't object to a 37 week delivery. That's only four weeks and I can live with that. The idea that he may not come for nine more weeks - bringing me 2 weeks over my 'due date' (read: that stupid date they give to pregnant woman, who then turn it into some kind of mantra and base their sanity on the baby arriving before or on that date, but not after) - isn't something I'm willing to even contemplate right now. It won't happen. It can't happen. I veto any late gestating. I'm writing up an eviction notice and he has to leave the premises between four and seven weeks from now.

Just to make things worse, the gremlins are living up to their nickname today. Gutsy's attitude would earn him a two hour special on Nanny 911 (and earn the nanny several weeks of in-patient mental health care, hands down). Intrepid spent the night at the in-laws' campsite and is a wee bit tired. This means we have a spazzy child and a tired child attempting to interact with catastrophic consequences. The noise volume is at an all-time high. In fact, I ordered everyone into the van after dinner to subdue the monsters with a movie and a drive out in the country. I apologize to the environment for ruining it and to my children for pacifying them with flashy, bright images on a box, but I just couldn't take it anymore. Geekster was losing it, too, but at least he gets to go to work tomorrow.

It's times like these that I have to remember what it was like to not only look after my own dastardly duo but the daycare demons as well. It makes me feel a little bit better. Just a little bit, though. The memory of those traumatic days is leaving me like a white collar husband going through a midlife crisis. It's getting hard to draw on all that negativity and use it feel better about my current situation.

Of course, I just type all that garbage and Intrepid has to come over and perform a random act of hugging. Way to ruin my sulk fest. Jeeze.

Countdown to Oldness: 12 days.

Will it all suddenly get better when I'm a mature and sensible woman in my thirties? Please tell me it will.

Life is like a box of cereal...

I just finished Second Dinner. I'd like to thank the Hobbits for giving a name to the fourth meal of my day. Having Second Dinner has become a regular occurance between 9 and 10pm on most nights. InUtero Boy is growing at an alarming rate and has the kick of a small horse. I don't know if he's punching or kicking my bladder. In some ways I hope he's punching it because it would mean he's still head down. In other ways I hope that's a kick, because if it's a fist he's going to be stronger than Hercules on a heavey dose of steroids.

"Newton! Apply some acne medication on my back, quickly!"

A big shout-out to my friend, Mrs. Wailing, who turned 21 for the seventh time today! I went to see her this morning and let Gutsy steal Wailing Junior's toys on a couple of occasions. I did that because I figured she should move off the couch or face getting bedsores. You know how old people get them when they're not very mobile. I was just trying to help.

Speaking of old, it's time for my least favourite part of my recent posts:

Countdown to Oldness: 14 days.

There. I'm glad that's done with.

Today I received a gift certificate for a very lovely spa, courtesy of maw n' paw n' law! It entitles me to breakfast followed by two treatments of my choice. Now is the time when I'd really like to be high class enough to know what to choose. I'm in desperate need of a pedicure, so that will be priority numero uno (if you don't know what I just said, The Madre can translate it for you. She's a Spanish goddess, after all). Then I was considering a massage, but my nails could use some work... I just don't know enough about the good life. I'm so used to playing my banjo and admiring people's teeth that I ain't got the time for that fancy city slicker stuff. Fetch mama's pryin' bar, will you 'Trepid? That's a good boy.

The in-laws are in town for the folk festival. As promised, I am showing enormous restraint when it comes to jabs at their expense. Maw-in-law tried to bait me into it over the phone, if you can believe it. Trying to find my weak spot, I tell you! However, she hadn't realized that the spa gift certificate had arrived in the mail just a couple of hours earlier, so I had something tangible to hold on to while I bit my tongue and winced the urge to poke fun at them away. We're meeting them tomorrow morning for breakfast and may attend the old fogg... *ahem*, the folk festival for a while afterwards.

Tomorrow is also my daddy's birthday. It's birthday central around here lately. I can't keep track. Then again, I've been putting boxes of cereal in the fridge and milk in the cupboard lately, too, so this isn't surprising. My solar panels are facing North, if you know what I mean. I'd like to blame pregnancy, but I really think I have gone permanently stupid. There's no turning back now. Maybe I'll just blame my children anyway. It's easier to point fingers at people who won't need therapy for another few years. Hopefully by then I'll be a bestselling author (please stop rolling your eyes - it's not good for you) and I can afford the very best care for their resentments. Parents should always think ahead.

Time for my bath. I have a date with a good book. It's a good book because I didn't write it. I blog instead. It wastes no paper and it can be easily deleted.

In fact, no trees were harmed in the making of this blog. However, one Google crawler was killed trying to make its way through the rubbish I post on a daily basis.

Life's greatest secret, revealed!

People always ask me what the 'secret' to my marriage is, as if we have a special recipe for bliss written on scented rose paper and kept in the vault of an old bank somewhere. We've been together for thirteen years and married for nine, so it hasn't been an eternity or anything. However, the majority of our relationship has been happy and we seem to be that couple that can ride the waves without any major sea sickness. I see why people ask. I'm proud of my marriage. There's no shame in that, is there? It takes a lot of work to be happy (like slowly brainwashing him into thinking I'm the best catch in the world).

Sometimes, in my bitchier moments (which are getting more frequent as the summer and my pregnancy wear on), when someone asks me a question such as 'I'm never happy in relationships. How do you make it work?' I want to answer with this little tidbit:

It's Simple: Grow some higher standards.

It's not surprising that my standards are fairly high, no? After all, I'm the girl who orders the decaf, half-sweet, soy, vanilla latte. Throw in 'extra hot' if it's cold out. I know what I want and I know how to get it (if you knew that was a Sex Pistols lyric, I love you.)

There are certain things that are absolutes in our relationship: He must respect me as a person, treat me as an equal, treat his children with dignity and be involved in their lives, make major life decisions with me and communicate any issues he has with me before they erode our marriage.

Oh, and he must expect the same from me, no question. That's a big difference between being high maintenance and having high standards. I expect that my partner has enough self-respect to insist that I treat him respectfully, too. I have no interest in a doormat. In fact, most people don't. And the sooner everyone realizes this and starts expecting more from their relatioships, the sooner there will be many happier, fufilled couples in this world, the sooner Robin will have to return her scary veneers to the dentist because Dr. Phil will be out of a job, and the sooner I'll be able to stop bitching about stuff like this in my blog. Imagine what I could be writing about now if I wasn't irritated by things that are none of my business to begin with. Look at what our society has reduced me to. Look at what years of Oprah episodes have done to me.

I want to bang my head against a wall sometimes, and not only when my coffee pot continues to make pathetically weak java despite many investigations into the cause (I never claimed to be mechanically inclined). I hear the same sob story over and over: 'Why doesn't he respect me?'
Because you don't respect yourself. Isn't that an easy answer? And you know, even if you do start respecting yourself he may still try to walk all over you because he's used to doing it or he really is that naturally jerkish. But at least you'll be able to pull yourself, the former doormat, out from under his feet and leave him flat on his insensitive behind. It's a choice you get to make.

On the other hand, it's important to remember that people aren't perfect (except me, of course, and you if I decide you are, and my children when they smile and make me forget about our daily trips to Hades). If people are imperfect, then relationships have to be, too. Overlooking the little things is just as important as not tolerating the big things.

For example, I can overlook that I don't get a lot of flowers or love notes or foot rubs. It would only bother me if I felt Geekster wasn't showing how much he loves me. However, I love the non-conformist that is my husband, and therefore I look for and appreciate the unconventional ways that he shows his love for me. I may not get many bouquets of flowers, but I do get surprise coffees (I'm sure he'd bring me a coffee bouquet if he knew how to pull that off). I don't get love notes, but I do get a husband who spends all his monthly cell minutes talking to me on his way home from work, knowing that he's going to see me in a few minutes but also well aware that the kids will monopolize our time until much later. I don't get many foot rubs, but he knows me well enough to see when I'm exhausted even when I lie and say I'm not, and will take over the kitchen or the children and insist I go relax.

Speaking of overlooking the little things, Geekster was about to head up to bed when I said 'What? You're not going to stay and read my masterpiece? I'm nearly finished!'

He said 'I figured I'd read it in the morning.'

Now, I know my Geekster. He won't read it in the morning. He'll read it at night, when I remind him to read it, because he doesn't generally read my blog unless I throw something at his head. When I tell him this, he retorts with 'Oh well, it's just your blog.' Followed quickly by 'What? No gasp of shock at the blasphemy?'

No, love. I'm too busy trying to find something to throw at your head.