Yesterday was my tenth wedding anniversary.

Let me write that again…

Yesterday was my TENTH wedding anniversary.

This from the person who cornered the minister right after the wedding to get the marriage certificate back to throw it away mendaciously.

The fuckers said he prefers to file it for us.

What a guy.

At the time was plan was to have the little bastard not be born a little bastard and get on with my familiar single motherhood status.

And then ten years went by.

I could get all deep and talk about soul reflection and feelings and shit but the bottom line is……

It is all about the comfort factor.

Being lazy and choosing what is easiest.

Dealing with a person that you truly can’t stand just because he really does try to do the right thing…albeit often being unable to comprehend what the right thing actually is.

So ten years of not vacationing together, working opposite shifts, communicating via instant message or notes and not even sleeping in the same room. Last night was the first time he and I had a meal out alone in over two years.

I didn’t enjoy it.

And that my friends will bring us to the next entry.

Reason Number 105

As you've probably surmised by now, this ole getting back together thing isn't going exactly as I had hoped. Obviously it is going precisely as anticipated but I was trying to keep the glass is half full mentality.

SCM has tried to change his spots but in the end, those spots are still splatters of shit.

The latest annoyance involves the rearranging of furniture and room decor.

More specifically....all his shit is back in the house.

Even more specifically, all his shit is taking over my fucking house.

My home has four nice size bedrooms. The day SCM moved back in he commandeered one of the bedrooms as his office...or computer, video game, music and Internet porn room. Of course it took exactly a week for it to start stinking like an ashtray, sweat and ass.

I tolerate it because he keeps the door closed and he isn't stinking up the rest of the house.

However, I was in for a not so pleasant surprise when I got home last night.

The room that used to be occupied by my adult son, and was supposed to be turning into my office...ya know..an office where I could actually work....now has a bedroom set in it.

John's bedroom set.

In addition, any contents that was in "his" room that he no longer wanted, is now being stored in my "office". His music equipment is stored in the closet, there is a book case against one wall, an old television and stand against another and a pinball machine blocking the one and only window.

I wonder how long I have until I have to move my shit out into the garage?

Reason Number 105

I think Jesus Christ has moved into my home.

Although I have never seen him, SCM appears to be talking to him all the time.

Jesus Christ this, and Jesus Christ that....

I would never claim to be particularly religious but it was beaten into me by the nuns at an early age that taking the Lord's name in vain will assure you a reservation in hell for eternity.

To make this blasphemous exclamation even more disconcerting is the fact that I pay a pretty hefty chunk of change to the local Catholic school to educate my little brat. Call me uptight but I would really prefer she not pick up that particular expression.

"A C+ on my religion test!? JESUS CHRIST!!!"

I tried to express my discomfort at this expletive but as usual all I get is a half hearted...

I'm sorry.

Sorry? Well, as long as you're sorry.

Everything should be right as rain now.

SCM is sorry.

"Sorry is nice but do you think you can stop bellowing that phrase at the top of your lungs whenever the unexpected occurs?"

Last night the kid knocked over her cup of milk.

"Jesssss...MUTHERFUCKER!"

I give up.

Number 104. When I Had an Ouchie

I awoke to use the potty in the wee hours of the morning on Monday.

No pun intended.

When I stood from a horizontal position, I almost screamed in pain.

Oh shit, I thought, my back seized up again.

This has happened about ten times in my life and after each time I tend to forget how much it sucks.

Almost like having a baby.

So now I can't walk and have to pee.

This would not end well if I didn't get moving.

Which I did, I slooowwwwlllyyyy lowered my tush on the seat in jerky movements and emptied my bladder. As I wiped, I wished with all my heart that I had a bidet.

I stood up using the same jerky motion and went into the living room knowing sleep was over for the night.

It was about 3:30am.

By 7:00, I was no better and knew I would be calling in sick to work that day. However, I did get to enjoy several hours of the MASH marathon so all was not lost.

In addition, I had to wake SCM up to take the munchkin to school.

This process is never fun.

Since he claims he can not go straight to bed after working the 5pm-11pm shift, he stays up to four o'clock in the morning playing video games, looking at porn and I assume, choking his favorite chicken.

After snoozing less than three hours he is bound to be cranky.

I don't hate him for this. I am used to it.

No, the hate part came when he returned from driving the kid to school.

While he was gone, I called my doctor and requested the medication that had worked for me in the past to be called into the pharmacy. They said they would do so immediately.

When SCM returned home I asked him to please go back out and pick it up. He said he would be happy too. I informed him I have no cash on me and could he please pay for the medication.

And he responded...

"If I MUST."

No dear, why don't I just crawl to the nearest ATM machine to get the fucking $10.00 copay because I know laying it out is such a sacrifice.

He complained he was budgeting his money and didn't account for this.

Ten dollars.

Ten fucking dollars for his wife who he claims to love more than life itself.

Maybe more than life but certainly not more than ten bucks.

Yes you MUST.

Dickhead.

Pancakes and Dog Shit.

Answer me this..is it all men that can step over a load of dogshit in their path to the kitchen and go about their day?

Or is it just the idiot I married?

I awoke to the smell of pancake syrup and doodie this fine Sunday morning.

Hmmm, what an interesting yet nauseating combination, I thought.

Let me add here that I am a cranky bitch when I first wake up.

I make a point to wake up an hour before it is necessary on week days just so I can drink coffee until the urge to add cyanide to the rice krispies has abated.

But on the weekend, I like to sleep in and sometimes other awaken before me. I usually avoid human contact by immediately getting in the shower or bath tub to clear my mind and my temper. If that doesn't work, I will lock my bedroom door and absorb myself in a novel for a few chapters.

Hey, whatever keeps the fam alive.

The problem was that the smell wafting from the next room required immediate further investigation.

I opened my door and the scent got stronger. Well, at least I was on the right track.

Three steps into the dining room and there it was. The dog load from hell. If I didn't know better, I would have said a Great Dane had snuck in to do his business and not the little yappie dogs that reside here.

Okay..well, that explains one part of the equation. Now where is the sweet smell coming from.

SCM was in the kitchen with my daughter and her overnight guest flipping pancakes for breakfast while the little girls munch happily away.

With dog shit within ten feet.

On the floor.

Of my home.

His explanation?

"Oh, I figured I would let it harden so it would be easier to pick up."

I don't think I need to write how that explanation went over with the mood I was in.

Donations to his medical bills are being accepted through paypal.com

Number 103 doesn't need further explaining.

Reason Number 102

SCM has something he wants to talk about.

I know that he has something he wants to talk about because he stands right next to me and stares until I acknowledge his existence.

He is currently employed at one of the high end restaurants in the Land Of Mickey and Donald and a few times a year, they are given tickets for free admission into the park.

Our conversation went as follows:

SCM: I received three new employee tickets from my job last week.

Me: Great, what’s the deal with them?

SCM: I can get three people in with myself until January 1.

Me: Are there any black out days?

SCM: From the 22nd of Dec through Christmas I believe. Maybe one or two days in November

ME: Oh. Well since I like to take the kid during my Christmas vacation, do you know if the passes you were given earlier have black out days?

SCM: They are good until January 2010.

Me: But if I want to use those instead for the days that are blacked out on the others, can I do that?

SCM: THE ARE GOOD UNTIL 2010!

Me: (running out of patience). Okay, why don’t you try ANSWERING MY G_D DAMNED QUESTION.

SCM; I DID. I ANSWERED IT TWICE.

Me (deep breath) Try this rewind what I asked in your head, pretend there are actually two people in this conversation and answer the one and only question asked of you.

SCM: I am SORRY I brought it UP.


SCM storms out with a few choice words and how I like to bitch at him for no reason. I am smart enough not to follow him because now he is in a mood and it is quite obviously all my fault.

To his credit, he does actually think about what just transpired and came back with the older tickets stating there are no black out days.

Reason number 102, he is unable to participate in a conversation involving more than just him and his head.

Reason Number 101

When I was still a young and innocent freckled face girl, I dreamed of my true love who would come for me, sweep my off my feet, buy me sparkling jewels, write me beautiful poetry and whisper sweet nothing to me for the rest of my life.

Now I would settle for a man who can shut the fuck up long enough for me to read one page of a novel or watch five minutes of a Seinfeld rerun.

If you are new to my story, I refer to my husband as SCM and if you stick around a while, you will soon find out why.

However, reason number one hundred and one is about SCM’s need to comment on every fucking thing as he feels it, sees it or thinks about it.

Every fucking thing.

A familiar actor on a commercial will result in a fifteen minute speech on every movie said actor has starred in, every show of which he guest starred, every cameo appearance for the last twenty years and if he prefers the stall to the urinal.

Keep in mind this actor was familiar to him. I personally not only have never seen him before in my life, I didn’t ask and I didn't care.

But that makes no difference to SCM.

By now one would think the disgusted look and exasperate sigh that I shoot in his direction would discourage him for continuing. One might think that if one didn’t know my husband. When he is on a role, what he is saying is so darn important that he convinces himself that I will be ever so grateful for the information if I would just be patient and allow him to get to the end of his tale.

I don’t even pretend to pay attention anymore. Politeness for this behavior ended in about year two of our marriage. I don’t look at him, comment upon what he says or offer any facial acknowledgements whatsoever. I have tried to shush him in the past but I learned that all that does is get him off on a tangent as to why he feels the need to tell the story before he tells the actual story thus increasing the time I have to tune him out to catch Kramer’s one liner.

As if this isn’t bad enough, SCM has a problem understanding the concept of a book. When someone’s face is in front of several hundred sheets of bound paper, they are usually engrossed in something either educational or amusing. Now you and I friends, being hopefully normal people, understand this. Not my husband. If I am reading, I am doing nothing and am totally free and available for conversation.

It is quite obvious that I must be bored and in need of some entertainment. Now what could be more entertaining then to listen to one of the hundreds of stories I have already heard a dozen times?

A reasonable and rational person, when told they have already shared a particular story, will not feel the need to tell it again with every detail expanded upon.

Reasonable is the key word here.

Tuning him out while staring mindlessly at a big screen TV is a lot easier than tuning him when my brain is trying to be fully aware of what I am reading. After reading the same sentence twelve or thirteen times, I usually give up, throw the book down and ask him to let me know when he is done.

Am I a bitch?

Fuck yeah.

What’s a gal to do when hints do not work and downright rudeness doesn’t either?

A large blunt instrument to his head comes to mind.