Between the pressure from society and my sinuses, I think I need a piece of chocolate

You know when you're at the beach and you get knocked down by a really big wave? You come up sputtering and your nose burns from inhaling large amounts of gross-tasting salt water and your face stings from being exfoliated by the sand you just ate, and just when you wipe your eyes and get your footing, ANOTHER big ol' wave comes and smacks you right back under.

Maybe you don't know that feeling if you wear goggles. Or are aware of your surroundings. Or steer clear of the Atlantic Ocean. But I've been to the Jersey shore before (EW), and that happened to me a lot when I was feeling brave enough to venture into the water (TWICE). And that is sort of how I'm feeling this week (metaphorically speaking and all). Sam got hit with his ear infection and snotty, stuffy-nose sickness sometime last week (or two weeks ago, I can't really remember ANYTHING anymore) and then I got it. Felt kinda "meh" for a few days and then one day I turned into the blob that did not want to move from the couch. Finally got my footing though and wiped my eyes, and then yesterday- BLAM. Feeling like death had just mowed me down again. Where in the frickety frick is this crap coming from?? It is not like we even GO anywhere these days. And my house is cleeeeeeaaaaannnnn!!! I promise! Thank goodness Steve got home from work early yesterday (or, well, ON TIME, which is just as unusual as "early") so he took over feeding and bathing and entertaining the small person while I laid on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, and moaned about how demanding my boss is and how much I wish I could call in sick.

Of course yesterday was payday and we ran out of something like six essential foods in our house, so I was dreading the subsequent commissary trip that had to happen today. I don't mind running errands with Sam because he is generally well-behaved when we are out and about, but he has become much more, um, "defiant" lately when it comes to getting in the car. You would think I was strapping him into a chair that was on fire. He screams and cries and I gotta do this wacky move where I use one elbow to hold him down at the crotch so he doesn't arch his back and make it impossible for me to fasten his buckle. I can only imagine what the neighbors think when watching me strap him in.

<Sam, screaming like he is being forced to sit in a bed of fire ants>
<Me> "Sit DOWN. Here- milk? juice? book? pacifier? toys? Come on child! SANTA IS WATCHING!!!"

Luckily we just don't GO anywhere anymore. That eliminates a big hunk of the problem. But there are times when we need things (say, groceries for example) or when I have to run an errand or when I just CANNOT take being inside of our house any longer and the carseat fight seems to be worth it. (I usually start doubting whether or not it's "worth it" about halfway through the battle.)

Upon waking up this morning and having a piece of sandpaper replace the usual lining of my throat, I decided that I could not and would not take Sam to the commissary with me. And lo and behold, Steve got back from PT early! I convinced him that I only needed to grab a few things from the commissary and if I could just go now, while he was home between PT and work, it would save me lots of time and quite a bit of sanity as well. Saving these two things only serves to benefit Steve, so he agreed.

It took me an astounding FIFTEEN MINUTES to work my way from the front door of the commissary to exiting the checkout line. I was SO PROUD. And so happy! I would not have to battle the crazies with paychecks fresh in hand at the commissary later in the day, NOR would I have to take Sam with me. Win win win WIN. I got home to realize that I didn't buy the most important thing I had gone in for. And THEN I got a text from the FRG leader alerting me that I needed to make something for the Soldier Appreciation Day for the battalion TOMORROW. OF COURSE. I cannot bring myself to go back to the commissary. I went there this morning during low-tide, 7:30am. Now? If I went back there now? SUICIDE. And being sick does not help my attitude when it comes to wackadoos clogging up the teeny weeny aisles of the commissary on payday, trying to decide whether they should buy these pork feet, or those pork ears. Choices, choices, choices.

The poor soldiers will most likely end up with some gluten-free brownies, as that is the only thing I really have available in my pantry to bake at the moment. Or I could just stuff some Cheetos into ziploc bags and call it a day. I would personally, LOVE to receive bags of Cheetos. So I don't see how that could be a bad idea.

Speaking of receiving, Steve and I did absolutely nothing for Valentine's Day yesterday. Well, we said "Happy Valentine's Day" to each other, but that was about it. I asked him what he would like (alerting him to the fact that I had not gotten him anything yet), and he said something completely inappropriate for the internet, and then he asked me what I wanted and I said nothing. We agreed that cards would be a waste of money (would much prefer him to just write me a sweet note) and I need chocolate like I need a hole in the head (HINT: cannot breathe out of my nose, so chocolate is very much appreciated please and thank you), and I do not want him to go out and buy some crappy, bottom-of-the-barrel, overpriced bouquet of half-dead roses. I did mention, however, that a random bouquet of non-dead flowers on any other day of the year would be very well-received around these parts and (HINT HINT) chocolate will never be rejected.

By the time he finally got home from work, I was feeling particularly pathetic and possibly did not even offer to cook dinner. This could partly be because I didn't thaw anything out. (Oh, the SHAME.) But after watching him play with, feed, and bathe Sam, I started feeling some guilt and dug a skillet meal out of the freezer (Wife Of The Year, here I come). Then (then!) I also dug out some frozen cookie dough and made him some cookies. Well, by "make" I mean that I broke the little blocks apart and stuck them in the oven. Steve got them out of the oven and forced me to eat too many of them. He then told me that I could come upstairs five minutes after him and I could have the sink in the bathroom all to myself. What a lovely gift, as I could now go "put away" the rest of the cookies (snarf, snarf, snarf) and brush my teeth without worrying about random food particles colliding with the back of my head while Steve flosses and I jockey for the sink. (We have the tiniest bathroom in the history of bathrooms.) I finish brushing my teeth and applying my Breathe Right strip (hello hottie!) and find my sweet husband already passed out. I finish off the night by listening to Hypnobabies and almost strangling myself with the cord on my iPod.

Oh and my most favorite Valentine is my mom (sorry Steve). She sent me the SWEETEST package filled with chocolate (she knows how I operate) and this Clinique face lotion that I was hemming and hawing over while she was here visiting recently. I could not justify the cost, and that is why I was to the point of using a magnifying glass to find the last little bits of lotion in my sample tub yesterday morning, but she has saved the day and replenished my supply. THANK YOU MAMA! My face thanks you and Steve thanks you too for not letting me run out of quality chocolate.

Perhaps one day this weekend I will go "all out" and cook Steve a proper dinner and dessert and let him know how much his love means to me. I might even make him a homemade card and write a love letter and set the table and let him choose what we watch on tv for a change. I don't need one designated day each year to show my husband how much I love him. Quit it with the PRESSURE already, Hallmark. Geez.