OMG! I've become Helen Roper!

How sad is it that I can now relate to this woman?


When I got married, I thought that the "frustrated wife" was a myth. Some concoction of the male brain to give porn a 30 second story before getting to the nasty. But my friends, as the war over adequate sleep, housework and contraception rages in this house, this wife ain't gettin' any.

Granted, I still probably have sex more than most married people -- especially those who might have squeezed a baby out of their vaginas in the not-so-distant past. But the scales in this house have always been tipped unfavourably for the half of this marriage that would actually forgo sleep for sex. (Which is why we have a pocket coil mattress. So I can toss and turn desperately in my corner, while His Dogness sleeps uninterrupted.)

I don't even think the Dog realizes how curmudgeonly he's become. He fucking loves his sleep. God forbid he should not get his sleep. To be fair, I've been spending most of my days with yesterday's mascara highlighting the dark circles under my eyes, wearing the same yoga pants day in, day out and tops that provide easy access -- for breastfeeding. Maybe I need to try a bit harder.

I know what you're thinking. Throw on some lingerie. My husband is afraid of lingerie. He's afraid of its raw power and its blatant suggestiveness. He likes subtlety. And cuteness. And he really likes his sleep. He doesn't seem to get that our former daylight rendezvous are out of the question now that sleeping in means 7:30 am. The children's nap times rarely coincide and when they do it's too prime an opportunity to get other shit done. So as the Ray Charles song goes, the nighttime is the right time. Just not for the Dog.

I went out with some of my best gals last night, to celebrate the impending birth of Kate's son. It was a blast and I probably had way too much wine. No. I DID have way too much wine. Of course between two pregnancies and two bouts of long-term breastfeeding, too much wine now means 3 fucking glasses.

I get tarty when I drink. Some might use the term "easy". I reveal more than I should (Shocking, I know! What more could I possibly reveal? Oh dear.) and I get ridiculously loud and affectionate. Some might say "horny" or "annoying".

My husband picked me up on his way back from working the hockey game. We came home to a clean house with no kids. I was flirty and silly, but to no avail. It never works when I'm too obvious. So I headed to the opposite couch and watched SNL.

The husb promptly fell asleep at the end of SNL. I, however, was utterly restless. The alcohol and whoremones were coursing through my veins. And that's when I realized that I have become the frustrated housewife. I should just dye my hair red and determine if I'm wearing mumus from now on, or if I should take on the uniform of that other famous frustrated housewife.


The sad thing is if I looked like Katie Segal's other famous character (photo below) I probably would get my husband's attention.