Meet Janet

Obviously, my name is not Janet. It's simply what Girth Brooks refers to me as every now and again. Here's why;

When I was pregnant, I was a bit of a freak. While there is no jealousy in my bones, my hormones took right over as baby weight consumed my hot body. Walking through a shopping mall with my poor husband and disgusted sister, I had a melt down. My husband turned his innocent head in the direction of a gymnastics studio. The scenario that carried out from there were my tears, my loud crying voice and my hate for him (I am far from a pretty cryer). I wasn't consoled until I was served my basket of clams at the restaurant.

I pulled hairs up off the interior of the car, picked up bobby pins from our living room floor. All while hissing, "Who's IS this?"... Yeah. After about two months of this, it pretty much passed.

Then Janet was born. If I asked him where something as simple as one of his shirts were, he would tell me that it was at Janet's house, if I asked where he ate lunch during work, the answer was, Janet's house...before bed, it was 'goodnight, Janet', with kisses. He obviously thought it to be super funny to call me by the name of his "other woman". It was, actually. Such a dipshit. The fact that his guitar playing skills make me want to pull my pants down to my ankles, dismisses quite a bit of his semi-retarded activity.

I know, I know. Keep your pants on ladies. His self-proclaimed 'weapon' is just for me. No, I do not mean his guitar...