Hey, Motherlovers! Here we are, back at it again with a weekly - more like when she feels like blogging - dose of BARBIE! Not the plastic doll, the real one…wink wink. I love my partner. I do. Literally. But I can’t help if every single time I prepare a dish for me of snacks, and I see a hand not connected to MY forearm reaching out for MY plate of food, a slight sense of rage and hate spew out of pores! Call me a cunt, but I don’t like to share my fucking food. Don’t touch it. I’ve no idea, why and therapist around the world, please don’t diagnose me. Look away. At a very young age, my mother always told me I was very selfish and had, and still do, Mommy Dearest, a heart of stone. I never liked to share what is mine. If for some reason, I had to share, I would simply get two of one and share it – so if I knew I was going to have another belly around, I would make two or four sandwiches or plates, one or two for each of us. Also, now that I am a grown up, I ex...
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