I keep thinking I should go to the store and buy myself one of those pretty journals so I can write out all of my deepest, darkest secrets. And while we have a very serious commitment to each other to NOT snoop or spy or get into each other's personal space, I imagine that if he saw me writing in a journal things would get weird. If I started writing secrets down on paper I imagine he'd lose his mind with curiosity. It's not odd for me to be typing away on my laptop, he asks what I'm doing, usually I'm posting on the bee or facebooking.

It's not that I'm trying to hide anything from him, but sometimes I just need a space to work through stuff on my own. If I talk about things before I've had a chance to think about them, then the words don't come out right and things get confusing. He gets frustrated when I'm obviously cranky and won't tell him why. He doesn't understand when I say that I don't know why I'm cranky. But most of the time that's the truth. I just need time to get some clarity and figure it out before I can clearly talk about it. Maybe if I write about it for myself, it would make it easier for me to not be so cranky all the time. And maybe when I am cranky I could easily be able to explain it. 

He thinks I don't love him as much as he loves me. I know this. He's afraid I think of leaving him sometimes. He asks me about this. I say I don't want to leave him. I don't question things. 

The truth is, I'm afraid my actions will be what leads him to walk away from me. I'm impossible to please. He goes out of his way to make me happy and it's never enough. He does things to make my life easier, but since he doesn't do them the way I do them, it's useless. 

I get lost in the deep ruts of living with someone. Day in and day out we go through the same routines and they become stale and boring. I don't make the effort that's needed to maintain the connection. There's no kissing, no cuddling, sex on Saturday mornings if I'm feeling it. Maybe. No attempts to flirt, look good just for him, make him feel like he's loved, wanted, needed. He asks for my love, seeks it out, lets me know he's missing it and I say I'll try. This happens over and over. 

I was watching a show today about a police detective that was promoted to sergeant and his wife was there to pin his new badge on. The show being about police officers was all about loyalty to the force and what they go through every day, but that moment in the show in which you see the tenderness and pride in his wife's eyes really struck me. I'm marrying this man. This man has chosen me to be the one he spends the rest of his days with. When I said yes, I said that I also want to spend the rest of my days with this man. Not lazy, boring, stuck in a rut days. Those days will not last. They have to be days filled with love and loyalty and pride. Each day will not be perfect, there will be anger, sadness, fighting, but there will be more happiness, please don't forget why you said yes or the fact that he chose to ask you in the first place. 

This is (not) 40.

I wish you could see me right now. Wait. I'll paint you a picture. I'm wearing black yoga pants that prominently display my ass crack and a hoodie that has a large bleach outline of the bottom of the tub scrub brush on the front. I'm choking on one of the many Rolos I have been stealing from the bag that I'm supposed to bring to my future-sister-in-law's bridal shower tomorrow. I'm sitting on my couch surrounded by laundry, typing up this blog post on my laptop while I watch This is 40 (6.3 stars on IMDB? generous..) because the trailer made it look like a movie that might make me motivated to make the best out of this life even though I'm turning into a bitter, old, fat hag.

I'm 32.

In the middle of all of this glamour I had the bright idea to start a new blog, because it's time to make some changes in my life and maybe writing about it will help me get there. You see, as this blog name suggests, I am a HUGE bitch. And I often wear stretch pants. Like every day. I get home from work, the stuffy work pants come off, the stretch pants go on. I wake up on the weekends, the stretch pants go on. And do you know what's under those stretch pants? Gigantic beige granny panties that make Mr. Bitch want to collect them all into a gigantic pile and light those mother fuckers on FIRE.

I wear these pants because 1. I'm incredibly lazy and 2. I am carrying about 60 extra pounds that found their way to my body over the past year. Mr. B says he likes the boobs and butt I'm rocking these days but when I look in the mirror all I see is Mama June**. For real. Then I go eat a cheeseburger.

The bitch part, well, I mean, do I really have to explain? Don't worry, you'll see what I mean as the blog posts start flowing. So let's get on with it then, shall we?

** For the record, I think Mama June is a rock star and as a matter of fact, she's lost quite a bit of weight herself. But that whole missing jawline thing - I've got a whole lot of that going on.