Laziness is Hard Work

My husband left for work because apparently we have bills that need to be paid and all the Canadian Tire money I've been hoarding for the past 15 years won't go very far in covering our debt.

Or so say's my husband. I'm pretty sure he doesn't really know what he's talking about because he's never actually tried paying our mortgage or any of our utility bills with the wildly coloured Canadian Tire money. I think he's talking out his arse cheeks without any actual evidence to support his claims.

He'd make a lousy scientist.

See? I'm rich with funny money!

Thank God he makes a pretty decent husband. Which makes his departure and subsequent absence that much more depressing. It turns out I kinda dig the dude. And the longer he's home the more I like him. It's like magic. Like how Sea Monkeys never die.

It's almost as though I actually knew what I was doing when I was 20 years old and agreeing to marry him as we gestated babies together.

Take that all ye doubters! It wasn't just dumb luck! We still like one another all these years later!


So ya, he's gone. After being home for more than two weeks because I may have had an epic temper tantrum and threatened to knock down his precious new garage walls if he didn't get his butt home to help supervise their erection.


That sentence doesn't look right.

(I swear, he didn't just pack my heart into his suitcase, he stole my brains as well.)

My point, murky as it may be, is I miss my husband. And he's only been gone three nights. But when he's home the dogs don't sleep with their arses pointed an inch away from my nose, thereby waking me up with what smells like gaseous warfare; the kids actually act like functioning humans instead of the sass monsters I'm stuck with and the spinach in the fridge never has a chance to wilt.

(Fun fact: My husband thinks he's Popeye and eats spinach the way Britney Spears eats Cheetos.)

Of course, as sad as I am that my husband is gone, I'm fairly certain that my husband is thrilled to be gone. While having him home meant perfectly grilled steaks for me, construction progress for the man-cave and obedient children for all, apparently for him it meant HARD WORK.

When it was finally time for him to leave I'm pretty sure he couldn't flee the premises fast enough. As easy as he makes barn building look, apparently it's hard freaking work. I wouldn't really know. It looks kinda sweaty from down here under my umbrella, in the shade, with my lemonade and my laptop.

(Don't judge me. I gestated and birthed three nine pound babies for that man and he didn't lift a finger to help. I PUT IN MY TIME AS A LABOURER.)

So my husband is now safely ensconced behind his desk, enjoying a vacation from home life as he toils away earning non-Canadian Tire related monies for me to spend.

I'm left alone, with our children who have suddenly morphed into gamer sloths and have melded with the couch, a leaking pool, a partially roofed monstrosity reminding me how I may be one step away from a permanent invite to a padded cell and  a couple of dogs who insisted not only on farting in my face all night long but getting up every hour on the hour to insist on chasing squirrels outside our bedroom window.

There's no way they would have done that if Boo was home. Or rather, there's no way I'd have had to been the one getting up every hour on the hour to let them in and out because I'd have elbowed my husband awake and then fake snored until he rose to let the annoying creatures out.

So I guess the point of the entire post is sometimes long distance marriages really suck.

Come home soon Boo. I really need to rest. And that barn ain't going to build itself.