Take a number and have a seat. Everyone will have their turn to air out their grievances and vent their frustrations with the world at large. But before any of that can happen, * I * get to complain first! Ha! It’s my blog…and my complaint department…so despite being in a pretty good mood overall, here is a list of the things biting my Canadian ass this morning.

· THE WEATHER

It looks like it might clear up later in the day but holy shit, am I ever sick of wearing hooded sweatshirts and jackets outside. And holy shit, am I ever sick of cloudy skies and bitter winds and rain, rain, rain. Where is all of that lovely summer like weather we had not even one month ago?! Oh yes… the American Boy took it with him, if I remember correctly. Damn him.

· MY ROOMMATE

AKA Rock. Previously known as the husband. Before I go any further, I’d like to point out that I don’t expect Rock to give a shit about me anymore. I don’t expect him to make any effort for my sake anymore, either. But I * do * expect him to give a shit and make an effort when it comes to his children. And I don’t think that I’m asking too much. And furthermore, as I’ve said before, dude has it pretty fucking good around here right now. He does almost nothing at all…case in point, last night I went upstairs to get a glass of water and have a tinkle while the American Boy was freaking out over Jodie the red eyed pig (okay, okay… he probably wasn’t thinking about the pig from Amityville Horror at that exact moment, but I’m telling you…there are few things quite as funny as Don freaking out over an imaginary talking pig….God, I’m cruel…). Rock was sleeping in the living room chair, which wasn’t a big deal and I decided that I was a wee bit peckish (laughing at Jodie the red eyed talking pig takes a lot out of a girl!). I opened the fridge to get something to munch on and noticed the complete lack of lunch kits sitting in there.

Rock didn’t make the lunches for the girls.

It sounds like a small thing, and you know what? It is. But it still bit my ass. Because last night was the first night in ages that I expected Rock to do anything at all. Normally when he comes home, his dinner is sitting in the fridge, the dishes are done and put away, the kitchen is clean, the kids are clean and all sleeping soundly in their beds. I mean, he literally has to do nothing but eat and fall asleep while watching the hockey game. Last night was the first night that I forced him not to help me out (but of course, I wanted a bit of help…) but to do * something * with his three children. Even if it was just to give them a bath and tuck them into bed. I still did the dishes. I still cleaned the kitchen. And yes, he ate a fully cooked dinner without any effort at all. All he had to do was what I do EVERY FUCKING NIGHT all by myself lately because he gets home so late.

But apparently, I’m gifted or something. Because I can remember that both of the girls have school the next day. Just like every other fucking Tuesday and every other fucking Thursday. Just like it’s been since fucking SEPTEMBER!

So, um, yeah. I’m a bit annoyed.

And for what it’s worth, I still give a shit about him. I mean, I’m still washing his boxer shorts, aren’t I? I’m not spitefully leaving his laundry pile up or anything. And I still ask him how his day was and such. And last week when we had some major bullshit go down about this house and my whacked parents and a huge monkey wrench was thrown into the middle of our separation plans, I hugged him and reassured him that I wouldn’t leave him high and dry. That we would leave together and I would leave him stranded.

So the * least * he could do is make the goddamned lunches!

· MY NEIGHBORS

(Don, honey, you can skip this paragraph. I’ve already ranted and raved to you about this last night. Remember? It was after the talk with your Dad and before I started teasing you about Jodie. Well, actually, it might have been before the pig talk. Because I pretty much bug the shit out of you about that pig non stop, don’t I? Hey! Maybe you should rent that movie while I’m visiting so I can see what all the fuss is about…okay…this isn’t a private e-mail so I’m ending the bracket now…)

Right. My fucked up neighbors. I’ve reached my limit with these people and their bold children. And I think that the shit is going to hit the fan before the end of the weekend, especially since tomorrow is a PA day and the kids will be home from school. And it sucks because I live in the country and it’s a small little community and I hate to make enemies, even if I will be leaving before the end of the summer, but I can’t take any more. My head might explode.

Their little girl, Lily, is in Emma’s class. This is the same little girl that I blogged about months ago over at Blogster…the little girl who was rooting through our garbage by herself on the side of the highway. Yeah, that little girl. Well, that little girl is a pest! And a bold pest at that! Two days in a row now she has knocked on our door, asking to come over to play. And it’s about the hundredth time overall. And each and every time I say, “No”. Not because I’m a horrible bitch…well kinda because I’m a horrible bitch…but mostly because I know that as soon as I let her in once, I will never get rid of her. Her mother has never accompanied her down to our house. She just sends Lily alone to knock on our door and beg me to let her play. And, to me, that’s bad manners. Lily’s mother should have come over with Lily at least once, to introduce herself and suggest a play date. If she had done that, it would have been another story entirely. But she didn’t. And I’m not a free baby sitter. I have enough children of my own, thank you very much.

And as if the constant knocking on the door isn’t enough (for the record, neither of my girls like Lily and neither of them wants to play with her…so I’m not depriving them or anything), Lily also got a hold of our phone number about a week ago and started calling and calling and calling, asking to speak to Emma and leaving very, very long messages on the answering machine. I have no idea if Lily’s mother or step father even knew she was using the phone. Maybe I’m old fashioned like this, but I think six is too young to be yakking on the phone.

Which is exactly what I was forced to tell Lily yesterday when she came knocking again and wouldn’t take no for an answer. I had to tell the child, not once, not twice, not three fucking times, but FOUR times that the girls could not have friends over to play and that I would not give her our phone number because in our house, the telephone is for grown ups and not kids. I’m telling you! I would have been scared to death of me when I was six years old!

So, I think it’s time for me to take a stroll down the highway (that’s another issue…I live on a highway and it’s simply not safe for a six year old girl to be walking alone along it) to have a little chat with Lily’s Mom because I’ve had enough and am beyond caring if my neighbors hate me. Wouldn’t be the first time, probably won’t be the last.

· MY, um, WORKOUT

Yeah…that’s it. A workout. Well, um, suffice it to say that I have been engaging in a very specific kind of, um, exercise. To, um, strengthen, a certain body part. Or target zone or something. And while it seems to be working some of the time, with the help of some specific herbs and vitamins, I’m not getting the results that I really, really, REALLY want. And it’s frustrating me. A lot. I feel like I’m * this * close to getting what I want out of the, um, exercises but it just doesn’t transcend into the exact result. I won’t give up…I refuse to surrender on this…but I’m starting to think that I might just have to be happy with the results I’ve got right now and stop holding onto the idea of the, um, myitslovelyknowledge.

That was pretty cryptic, wasn’t it? Sorry, Mary.

· PEOPLE WHO DON’T FOLLOW THROUGH ON THEIR TAGS

Oh yes, we all love a post about the Big Stupid Penis, Don. It was humorous and yes, we all acknowledge that you have a penis, are able to use a penis and are a sexual person. This is a really big deal, folks, and I shouldn’t be making light of it. Really. Our society, in general, has a tendency to asexualize disabled people. It seems that we feel it’s enough that we have to accept these people as differently abled. It’s enough that we have to acknowledge their abilities in the workforce and socialized settings…it’s too much for us to think about the fact that they also have sexual urges, let alone that they are fuckable. Accepting that at some point, they might have a sexual feeling towards someone is hard enough, it seems…and we’re almost willing to allow them the luxury of an occasional urge that needs to be dealt with. But to actually see them as attractive. To actually see them as sexual. To actually see them as able to be involved in a sexual relationship or situation is just too much. We all have this narrow idea of sexuality and as soon as something or someone doesn’t fit into it, well, we can’t wrap our minds around it and choose, instead, to ignore the something or someone.

In this case, it’s a someone. And it’s so unbelievably damaging, it breaks my heart. So, all of our talk about the big, stupid penis is not accidental. It’s not meant as shock value. It’s not meant to be sensationalized. It’s just an effort to increase awareness.

Yes, Don is a sexual person. His disability does not affect that part of him, in the least, except, of course, where societal views and stereotypes have left scars. And yes, we are sexual with one another. (Stop blushing, Mel…) And affectionate with one another. And no, it’s not embarrassing. And no, I don’t have a hard time kissing him in public or hugging him in public. And furthermore, no, I don’t have trouble looking at him without clothes on. I don’t have trouble touching him in the privacy of my bedroom or the quiet confines of a hotel room with no view. And it’s not a pity fuck. It’s not a good deed. Disabled people deserve to be viewed as sexual, fuckable and lovable just as much as the rest of us because they ARE sexual, fuckable and lovable just as much as the rest of us.

But that doesn’t exclude them from my annoyance when it comes to tags! I fucking tagged you, dude! Fill it out already!

· LAUNDRY

Can someone please tell me why my girls are apparently physically incapable of getting their socks into the laundry hamper? Please? Sometimes the big pieces make their way in there, but most of the time, it’s just tossed in the general vicinity of the laundry hamper. And the socks pretty much never make it through the opening. Neither do pajamas. For some reason, the pajamas are always left on the bed.

And it’s driving me nutty.

· THE BABY

I’m allowed to complain about him because he’s mine. Who says? God, that’s who.

I used to describe Michael as easy going. Even tempered. Sweet.

Not anymore.

And I want to know where that easy going, even tempered, sweet little boy went to.

Now I’m mother to a cranky, irritable, crusty and very loud baby boy. Every day is filled to the brim with bitching from him. He’s never happy anymore. Except, * maybe * while he’s eating. And that still depends on his mood. I have to turn “Play With Me Sesame” on several times a day just to manage to put some make up on or run some gel through the curls. He won’t play in the play pen. His little brain is telling him to go, go, go but his little body can’t catch up. And his frustration…well, that’s where the loud part comes in.

And the bitching.

And the complaining.

And with that, here is the end of my complaint session.

Now it’s your turn! Use the comment block to air out your grievances! Come on! You won’t likely have this opportunity again in Janet Land for a long, long time. I’d take advantage now…