Fighting.

We’ve been snarling at each other since Tuesday night when he decided that I was being a lazy cow for asking him to watch mouse eat dinner while I got away from the situation for 10 mins.

And because after he threw things around and muttered horrible things about me under his breath and then stormed out of the house – when he was ready to be calm and rational, I didn’t want to listen to him apologise. AGAIN.

This morning, he pitched a beauty, shouting, ranting, and telling me I have something wrong with me mentally. Telling me I am a lousy wife cos I don’t’ do enough housework or give him enough sex or SOMETHING.

I am a lousy wife because I am on the computer too much.

I am a lousy wife because I don’t iron his shirts.

All his friends told him not to marry me, but he didn’t listen and now he should have.

I am a lousy wife because there’s something psychologically wrong with me that I am sad about not getting pregnant, and because financially our life sucks.

I am a lousy wife because I’d rather sleep in another room when I have to get up 2 or 3 times a night then sleep with him and have to climb over his snoring ass to get our child so I can go and sleep in another room anyway, since he can’t sleep with her in the bed. And he sleeps through her wails.

I am a lousy wife because we only have sex 8 times a month, around ovulation.

I am a lousy wife because even though I’ve told him that he can take off any time on the weekend to do what he wants, I make it impossible, because he has to let me know in advance.

I am a lousy wife because I don’t appreciate drop in guests, and I resent having to cook elaborate company meals on the weekends without help and a bit of notice.

I am a lousy wife because I don’t like his mother more than he likes her – and don’t encourage him to spend time with her. So she’s pissed at him.

I am a lousy wife because the house is messy and untidy and what do I do all day.

I am a lousy wife because I don’t support the fact he works 5 days a week.

I am a lousy wife because I don’t make his lunch in the morning.

I am a lousy wife because every time he yells I always manage to twist it around so he’s being unreasonable.

What the fuck am I doing this for?

Would my life be so much more unbearable alone?

Bathing suit designers should be shot.

I had the day off yesterday. By that I mean, the hub looked after Mouse from the time he got up (okay, he slept in) until she finished dinner. It was unplanned – I wanted to go to the library alone, so I could choose some books, but it was closed and I ended up having to go to the one in the shopping mall. On the way there, LoveGod said – ‘have fun, hang out and see you when you get home’. Being the opportunist that I am, I immediately made secret plans to see a movie, and shop shop shop without the sticky hands of a toddler groping me as I struggled in and out of yet another too small fitting.

Bliss, I thought. I wandered through the upscale department store, spritzig perfume on my neck and longingly looking at clothes that would have fit me 3 years ago (I’m counting the pregnancy, okay). Now I need the fat lady clothes. I am 5’10.5” and about a size 16 – up 2 sizes from where I was pre-Mouse. My boobs could have their own postcode – I have been known to go to a size 18 for properly fitting shirts. And no, it’s not sexy; it’s mama-boob, that amorphous mono-boob that signals the end of tight t-shirts and the beginning of tailored and not so tailored ‘tops’.

I don’t know what possessed me to go into the bathing suit department. Perhaps its’ the fact that it is the height of summer here in Sydney, and I haven’t yet been in the sea. And my kid loves the sea.

So, I flicked thru the racks of lovely skimpy things. Bikinis that would barely cover my elbow and one piece that are cut so high that if you sit down too quickly you’ll be sliced in two. In white, in lavender, in lime green, in orange. All I wanted was something sturdy in a dark colour, that would hide my vestigial baby belly, life my boobs up to where they were before I breastfed and didn’t make my ass look like something upon which you would plant a flag and claim it as ‘new territory’. Oh and it has to come up high enough under the arms that the floppy bits are more or less camouflaged. I can tell you what it should look like – it should look sorta of like a 1950’s bathing suit – but no little frilly skirts please:

 Well, that is apparently impossible. I guess bathing suit manufacturers think all us fatties should stay home or better yet, go to the beach wearing a voluminous t-shirt and a pair of men’s board shorts. The only people who should go to the beach or be seen wearing a bathing suit are pre-pubescent girls. OR models. Too bad about the rest of us – you know, the older women who actually can afford to pay $190 for a bathing suit, cos we don’t count.

I have big boobs, a great high bum, long firm legs that don’t have an ounce of fat on them, and at almost 40, there is not a whisper of cellulite. But that isn’t good enough for the demons who make swimsuits.

I must be humiliated, I must be publicly shamed, I must be a figure of fun or wear something that begs people to say ‘kick me’.

I don’t want to wear something that is going to make people run screaming into the sea begging for a shark attack, honest I don’t.

I don’t want to wear a floral frilly skirt thing either – I am not 80.

I am well aware of my figure limitations. But they are easy to camouflage, I should know, I’ve been doing it with varying degrees of success for the past 2 years.

Maybe all the designers are men who hate women or gay men who would rather be dressing men in drag. I can think of no other reason why the rudimentary facts of a woman’s figure, known to every man on the planet since age 12 are so completely and utterly ignored by people professing to dress those figures.

Hint: Boobs are bigger than waists. And asses are bigger than waists. And in most women, their asses are bigger than their boobs. If you are a big boobed woman, chances are you are proportionately bigger all over, except if you are Pamela Anderson who is 90% silicone anyway. If you are a larger size, there is probably a good chance you are taller than the average woman too, so it would be nice to have proportionate body lengths. Ask any teenage boy if you aren’t sure what we look like under our clothes, cos they’ve had lots of practice imagining. Mind you, these facts are only true of women who have in fact, passed through puberty. Which is why they call us ‘women’ not ‘girls’.

So someone somewhere, start designing swimsuit cossies that cater to real women as well as the waifs and the teenagers.  Cos after all, we have the money. Have I mentioned, that we have the MONEY?

THIS IS SUPPOSED TO GET EASIER.

Well it's not. I have craved a smoke about a hundred times since I got up at 6am. I have no idea what to do. The only thing that is keeping me going is the knowledge that if I give in now - then the agony of the last week is for nothing.

I have managed NOT to be nasty to anyone, but the strain is telling. Honestly, my kid is currently throwing her chair around the room in an effort to shred my last remaining nerve. My hub is sleeping in, probably to avoid me, as I am rapidly losing patience with him as well. He better quit smoking or I will refuse to let him in the house. My kid is thisclose to being put up for adoption. Maybe she'll get a better mummy next time.

I wish I'd actually had a clue when I took this stupid habit up at 17. I never imagined that I'd be battling the longing for cigs at 40 when I bought that first pack. In a way, that also keeps me on the 'quit track', cos I don't want to be 60 and thinking 'gee, I never imagined I'd be battling lung cancer/a stroke when I decided not to quit at 40.

A stroke scares me the most. Yeah I know cancer is horrible, but hot damn, being mentally sharp and not being able to do much more than drool or grunt - yikes.

Blindness scares me too. I am so intensely visual that the thought of losing my sight is terrifying. I think I'd rather lose my hearing.

Well, I have been smart about one thing - I downloaded the screen saver from the Australian Quit Now campaign and set it to come on every 3 minutes. It's stopped me begging for 'just a drag' more than once. If anyone wants it - I'll email it to you. It will kill the craving fast, believe me. Scary stuff.

Or check it out here:http://www.quitnow.info.au/

(and apologies to all for being so single minded in my topic matter lately. It's pretty all consuming)

My life is so dull.

Got up, went to Tai Chi, came home.

Went shopping for new runners, came home.

Put Mouse to bed, took a nap, woke up.

And this is Saturday night for pete's sake. I am exhausted and I've done nothing all week but look after my kid and work. Well trust me, it wasn't "Brain Surgery and Clog Dancing" week so I shouldn't be this ragged.

And there's crap on the telly, the kid across the street can't babysit cos she's going to a party (ah yes, I remember those - they're the things you go to and DON'T fall asleep on the couch) and the contents of the fridge are collectively uninspiring.

Hmmm, maybe I'll have sex with the hub.

Happy Happy Joy Joy

Woo hoo! I am SOOOO healthy.

I am so healthy I bristle.

I am such a lovely lovely happy healthy person.

I am not smoking, I am chewing teeth whitening gum, I am drinking herbal tea instead of coffee and I am running.

Woo hoo.

Okay – reality.

I want to smoke more than I have every wanted anything in my life, except a baby. Except a smoke would calm me down and make me less of a bitch, but a baby would hep me up and I would still be the bitch I always am. Snarling and ranting.

This gum tastes like bathroom cleanser and I can’t see a difference in my teeth whiteness. Plus, it’s loosening a cap. Not good. And then my jaw hurts cos I chew it like I smoked – fast and furiously. I look like Darlene your friendly truckstop waitress. This is not what I aspire to look like, this is not what I want others to think I look like.

Thinking about family today.

I have 3 sisters and a mum and dad living in Calgary. I miss them all dreadfully most of the time, and the rest of the time, well, I get on with my life.

I have been wondering whether it is possible to forge any real and meaningful bonds with siblings that live so far away, you know? I mean, my one sister is a whackjob - a lovable goof and whenever we see each other, we take up where we left off, which is being silly and irresponsible. But we don’t see each other enough – say, once every 2 years so far. And we are always on reasonable behaviour when we get together, because the time is so short. And the time between so long.

And that sucks.

I am missing out on day-to-day stuff that would be so wonderful to be a part of. We could crab and kvetch at each other, dish the dirt about the others, bag our hubs and all that good stuff. And we could fight, cos boy, we do fight. We once hurled groceries at each other in a crowded street in Paris. People were diving for cover.

Memory:

Sitting on her blow-up plastic couch  in downtown Calgary. Watching Stir of Echoes on the DVD. They have no furniture but a DVD. Eating pizza off the floor, drinking Mike’s Hard Lemonade and keeping an ear out for my child, sleeping in a travel cot in the next room.. Smoking cigs on her balcony, throwing cheese down to a half starved cat and hitting the cars in the parking lot. Talking about her wedding in the church across the street. Nothing special about the evening, except it was so normal and well, ‘sisterly’. But it is one of my cherished memories and one that has gotten me thru some nasty places lately.

It saddens me to think that I might not ever get that back. No money on either side. And my child (while terrific) means responsibilities here that I can’t ignore. But I miss her. Phone calls and instant messaging isn’t the same.

I am missing her, and missing out.

How do people do it?

"Smoke free Day Two"

What do people do when they don't smoke? What did I do? I dunno but I tell ya, chewing the little bits of skin around my fingernails is not doing a lot for my selfimage.

So...

In an effort not to strangle my steadily tantrumming toddler, I took her to one of those indoor play thingies. Let's call it "Paramecium Park", shall we?

So what is WITH the parents at these things?

I mean, yes, you need a break from constantly monitoring your kid but how about checking up on them once in a while? Say, between your cafe lattes and the blowjob tips in Cosmopolitan? Or between long nasal monologues that are punctuated with "and then I says, and then she says and then I says"?

I don't give a fuck about whose butt has really gotten large after the triplets and nor do I care about the cost of your goddam garage door opener, or how cute the poolboy is.

They are kids and doing kid stuff, but it is not MY job to watch or discipline YOUR kid. It is YOURS. I am very uninterested in your children, trust me. Sometimes, like today, I am very uninterested in my OWN kid - so don't push me on this. My kid KNOWS she is walking a fine line, but she knows I will forgive her anything. Your kid, I will turn into a housepet in a nanosecond.

And what's with the "now Brandon, don't whack the little girl in the face, that's not nice, you wouldn't like that, that hurts, don't do that sweetums, come on buddy that little girl doesn't like it" type of parenting. Howsa about you either pull your little brat off my kid or I'll turn him into a permanent light fixture? Would that be something that would get some discipline action happening??

And your kid can't eat off my plate! Buy him some food for maude's sake. And if you are too cheap to eat here, then why don't you stop swilling $4 Capuccinos and toss him a gummybear or two? Or better yet, get offa yo fat ass and go home and cook him something nutritous. But get him away from me before I spit at him.

And I don't think your kid is cute or having a behavioural milestone when she wallops my kid, or pushes her off the rocking horse. Forget smiling at me and hoping for sympathy. You had it, now teach it some manners and some socialisation - or I will. I will growl so loudly at your child that it has nightmares about tall mean women for years.

I want you to watch your own child. You, know, MOTHER IT. Be a parent, not a friend. Show some interest - fake it - I have to, it's part of the job. And it's a 24/7 deal, you knew this before you got knocked up, and no matter what you want now - that's the way it is. So stop whining and stop hoping people like me will do the hard part of the job for you.

Pay some attention. Take some time. Make an effort.

You'd do it for a dog, now do it for your kid.

I think I hate every other parent in the world today. No wonder there's so many folks out there that hate kids.

It's been 8 hours. With the damned patch.

Ask me how much I want a cigarette. Go on, I dare ya.

And yeah, yeah smelly yeah unattractive blah health, blah live longer, blah blah not cool health cancer blah. Don't even bother posting anything encouraging that use any of these words. Cos I'll have to rip your kneecaps off and stuff them down your throat.

I know all this. I've known all this since I was 17. And I still smoked.

How sad is this? I was surfing the 'net looking for inspirational 'quit smoking' sites and I found a board where users were talking about how it's SO dangerous to put the patch over your heart. It delivers a megakick of nicotine to your heart and apparently is quite a rush. Of course, it could also kill you.

I read this and my first thought was 'woo hoo! partytime!!'.

I was meant to be an addict to something, obviously.

ARGH! I quit smoking this morning at 6am. I slapped a nicotine patch on.

Let me tell you - nicotine patches are for wimp ass smokers. If any ex-smoker tells you that using the patch helped them enormously - tell them they musta been smoking banana peels then.  Or were so-called 'social smokers' who light up when they drink and then wave the bloody ciggie around like a punctuation mark.

I was a real smoker. Since I was 17. 20+ a day. Smoked through colds, flu, and various other secretory ailments. This fucking thing might as well be a stick on Elmo Tattoo for all the good it's doing.

Right, off to terrorise some staff - I am at work today. I thought it would be better to inflict pain and misery on people I don't give two shits about than my actual family.

(and the thought of being trapped inside with a whiny toddler and no cigs makes me nervous. Very nervous. Antony Hopkins in Psycho nervous)

Today I have Mouse's cold. I am Booger Queen. I am Empress of Snot, Diva of Phlegm, Doyenne of Secretions.

Dammit.

My head feels like it's full of cement. There is some nasty pounding going on behind my ears and above my eyes and I feel like I am living in my own pressurised aircraft cabin (economy of course).

In desperation, I wadded up little bits of tissue and stuck them up my nose so I wouldn't have to constantly wipe. This lasted for 10 seconds until I actually SAW what I looked like: John Travolta in that Battlefield Earth movie. Enough to make you go back to sniffing and wiping.

I should not have to be sick on the weekend. Not fair. The TV is crap, the hub is around and I don't get to play.

Bless him, he took Mouse out for the arvo so I could sniff and smack my temples in private. (Smacking my temples seems to help, probably the same way that smashing your hand with a  hammer distracts you from the pain of an ingrown toenail). So they've gone off, and here I sit, longing for someone to invent some sort of snot-sucking thingie to clear out my head.

I actually lay awake last night hacking and wheezing, and soothed myself to sleep imagining just what this super snot-sucker would look like.

Still, secret pleasures. I have a shit load of mystery novels I got from the library, and a hidden bar of Cadbury's Fruit and Nut. Not sharing.