Rants and raves.

Watching the rest of Breaking Bad, a tv show on Netflix that J got us into?

Fabulous.

Him feeling me up while we watched it?

Less so.

I adore spending time with him, from mundane things (the grocery store) to better, more fun places...say, dinner. Laughing like hyena's while wrapping Christmas/Santa presents in the basement lugging a screeching baby along with the array of presents? Funnier still. Smooching on the sofa while GiGi takes a nap? It's those moments that breathe life into relationships, help them last a lifetime.

However.

Things that do not assist in that?

Moving the recycling as I requested out of the kitchen, but only one foot away into the hallway to collect there until someone trips over it. He'll Swiffer the floor; leave the dog sized fluff ball anchored by dirt and those rubber bits leftover from football season - who said turf fields were a good idea? - in the corner by the stairs. The one that the kids wander through tracking it up the stairs.

Dog has an accident on the floor? Okay. Shit. It's not great, it's not fun, but leaving the &%I$O#G paper towels on the spot does not earn you brownie points - what are you trying to do? Make sure I see that you attempted in some respect to pick it up? When it's on the wood floor it doesn't matter if some of it went into the paper towel. The floor joists - don't bother correcting me that the joists are under the floor, not actually what the spaces between the wood is called - still turn black. The floor, will, indeed, still smell. The dog will, still, find that particular spot and revisit. Like a serial killer, only more dangerous. She repeats the crimes, not just stands there feeling her bladder fill while longingly staring at the spot, holding it until someone takes her out.

No sir.

She'll pee right there.

How do I know this for certain? She's my fucking dog. I raised her. I potty trained her. I've stood in the blazing sun burning the top of my skull right off my head, tramped through snow so thick I had to pick her up over the drifts to find a place to go - the one I shoveled out for her - all so she'd go outside. I walked her, not just visited the Field Selected By The Association For Pet Pottying. Yes, I should have realized that there was a problem....her Indoor Icky Habits were not, in fact, a sign of GiGi Jealousy, as previously thought. Nope. She has a UTI, backed up -well, nevermind what was backed up, I paid my lovely vet to fix it today, since I couldn't do it myself - not to mention, the weight I thought she lost? Yeah, she gained it. The new collar was simply larger, so her Muffin Top over the collar wasn't noticeable.

I won't tell you what she weighed. She and I both peed on the floor in embarrassment and shame. Her more than me. Okay, only her. But I thought about it.

Did you know that if you leave baked beans, and entire can of them, on the stove, on 4, not, say, LO, half of the can will burn right into the bottom of the pan. The new pan. The one you told me not to buy any more of, because you had a whole entire set you were bringing with you. The fact that the pots didn't show up, but a complete set (and I mean ENTIRE set) of Christmas Cookie Sugary Bits that rival mine did? Boggles my mind. Not that you had them; but that they cannot be disposed of. Oh, no. We need two freaking sets of fucking red and green sugar, tree sprinkles and mint extract that lives ON THE COUNTER. We hardly have room to sneeze on that counter and capture our own snot, but let's liven it up a bit with some decorating crap.

Right. The pan. Soaking away in the kitchen sink (duh, what other sink would I soak it in?) with baking soda and soap, I'm not hopeful for it's salvation. Evidently, when I asked if he had tested the bbq pork loin in the crock pot to see if it fell apart, he started up the damn beans and assumed I'd do it.

Because I can read minds.

So twenty minutes later, while he and GiGi are watching some wholly inappropriate TV, he asks if I plan to touch the roast. Huh? Fine. I'll put dinner on the table. The roast is fine. The baked beans however have taken out a pan. I convinced the kids that those black bits? That was bacon the company put in there for flavor. Seriously. And they bought it.

Go ahead, pick a fight over something stupid, like whether or not I take the dog to the vet with or without the baby, and make that decision on my own without your input. Personally, I highly doubt exposing our baby to the stuff that lives in our dog's ass is healthy. Plus also? I don't want to lug her and a dog that fits me at the door to the vet. Add to that? You're whole "what if I wanted to do something this afternoon?" - really? Like what exactly? We spent the morning snugged up together watching Breaking Bad, and now, now you suddenly have some Important Things You Need To Do?

Spare me.

I need to go to the vet, the grocery store, the damn pharmacy alone.

Do you know why?

It makes waking up to watch an episode of Breaking Bad with you, snugged up under my b-graffe blanket special.

Fabulous.

Spending Grown Up Alone Time together then?

You bet.