1. The number of people who asked me where my husband was while I was shoveling the walkway (and later, sidewalk, fuck me) with the kid strapped to my back. Now first, what the hell business is it of yours, and second, I am able-bodied and strong and have never been the type to sit around waiting for someone else to do for me anything I could very well do for myself. That said, next time around he's doing the shoveling and minding the baby while I sprawl on the couch and eat bon-bons.
2. The prevalent idea that all women are enamored of Valentine's Day and entertaining perfect visions of flowers and candy and dinner and candles and the ideal $3.99 greeting card while all men live in fear of the day and are eternally fucking it up, whatever the hell "it" is. I don't hate Valentine's Day, it just bores me other than as an excuse for sex, which I am for. Although Chris did buy me a card and candy, which is notable mainly for the fact that we discovered Mia knows the sign for "candy," which she saw once on a video two months ago and has apparently retained in her beautiful little head just waiting for an opportunity such as this to break it out. I did not, in the end, buy him a Hustler, but I did have him going for a while there.
3. That the search for something sexy used to entail finding the smallest piece of fabric which could still technically be considered a garment, and now involves a frantic search for something which covers both my stomach and my scar. Don't get me wrong, I think my scar is hott, it just isn't what I prefer to lead with. You know what covers both stomach and scar? Yoga pants and my ratty-ass old pajama shirt. Hey, I did brush my teeth, since it was a special occasion and all.