A Valentines tale of woe…
(or the one where I overshare way too much information).
Heya. It’s Valentines’ Day. Or St. Valentines Day or whatever because it is a load of shit around here.
Hi. My name is “Ingi” and I’m pre-menstrual and not happy about it. You have been warned…(don’t scroll down if you are sensitive to swearing – it’s the real me coming out, and you may not like it).
It was my hubby’s birthday this week, so I had to be very sympathetic about him turning 8 years older than me, buy presents (what do you get the man who needs nothing and does nothing?), cards (from everyone), wrap them and then do a special birthday dinner. Which I did because that’s what you do for loved ones to show you care.
I don’t normally give 2 hoots about Valentine’s day because it really just another commercial ripoff to get us to buy more stuff and also it comes 3 days after my hubby’s birthday and I’m not doing all that shit twice in one week.
But this week, this year, I’ve worked 3 full days,as well as organised and supervised a full weeks worth of homeschooling.
I resigned myself to the fact that we are NOT going on our cruise to Japan, because we’ve got no-one to work in our shop while we are away due to staffing issues.
I’ve got PMS something shocking, as well as peri-menopausal insomnia and hot flushes and irritability (on top the PMS) and just general vagueness.
I am, in the words of a very wise advertising genius, Not. Happy. Jan.
Today, I got up early, got my period and found the fridge devoid of milk and the cupboard devoid of Nurofen, so went and bought some. Then I drove for an hour to start another full days work before driving another hour home.
Did I get a hug? A kiss? A happy Valentines to ya?
I got a phone call on the way home from work stating “there’s nothing in the fridge”.
I informed the man I married that there was chicken. I had bought chicken to cook for dinner. Driving along the highway, I vented out loud to noone that what I would REALLY like is for you, just for fucking once, to surprise me with a Valentines dinner out at a restaurant where I don’t have to cook. That’s what I would like.
I mean, I don’t think that it is too much to ask for the caring to cut both ways, do you? And it doesn’t even have to be a surprise dinner – it really could be as simple as just looking around the house, seeing what needs doing (clothes picked up and not left in the dining room – I mean really), just go out and buy some fucking milk and Coke because you’ve fucking drunk it all, just fucking do anything at all fucking helpful!. (I may have been a tad angry).
On arriving home, I had calmed down a notch and was cutting up said chicken to cook for said dinner, I noticed it was off. A kind of grey colour and didn’t smell so hot (not unlike myself). So hubby and the kids went off to the supermarket to pick up frozen pizza instead. I may have mentioned to Wombat Girl on the way out that it was, in fact, Valentines Day and if they wanted to pick me up a little treat, I might be less upset than I currently was.
They brought back smoked salmon, Tandoori Chicken pizza and chocolates and these:
You just redeemed yourself, buddy, just.
Normal programming and language will resume next post…
Did you get anything for Valentines?
What are your tips for sharing the domestic load?
Ever done a big, whiney, sweary blog post and regretted it?
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