Laughing At Mother’s Day

The problems I have with my husband are not like anything I’ve ever heard from other wives.  It’s part of why my frustration can come on like a tsunami, especially when pre-menstrual. 

He returns home from a long day of work and walks 5 miles at the local reservoir.  (The first couple of times I did the walk with him, but then I went up a few pounds and realized that walking causes me to gain weight.)  I know, it’s really weird.

Anyway, as soon as he walks in the door it’s the neverending saga of “What’s for dinner?” 

Last week I made something two nights in a row, so I’m guessing he might have thought I was going to do THAT again.  (It was very creative, especially the night I made a heart-shaped meatloaf and covered it with ketchup, making it look like a bloody heart.)

Tonight, after considering Pizza Hut take-out — which gets me as excited as most pervy dudes touching themselves while their computer screen displays some naked chick with hidden herpes sores – he instead decided to go to the grocery store. 

Break my heart, will ya?

He claims he’s trying to SAVE MY LIFE, the motherf*cker. 

Could it have been the order of Hershey’s Dippers that put him over the edge?

My sister just called & told me Mom ate a whole order of cinnamon sticks with powdered sugar dipping sauce when they last ate together.  She said Mom guarded them like a Rottweiler, refusing to share.  Mom insists pizza won’t go down because of the lap band procedure she had for weight loss.  Perhaps sugar is needed to grease the skids. 

In the aftermath of that story I see that not going to Pizza Hut may have been the best decision.

HOW F*CKING ANNOYING IS THAT?  HE’S RIGHT AGAIN?  DO YOU SEE WHAT I MEAN?

* * * * *

A trip to the supermarket means I’m forced to make a list of all the other things I want.

(HEAVY SIGH) 

White bread?  Brown  bread? 

Choices are just freaking annoying.

Obviously if you’re really trying to SAVE MY LIFE you’d buy the brown bread! 

If you’re planning to purchase the white bread, why not take in those calories as donuts?

* * * * *

He returns with the supplies for grilled cheese and asks if I want him to make me one. 

HELLO? 

Have I ever refused a grilled cheese in this lifetime?  So I tell him it’s a stupid ass question. 

He just delivered two to my recliner.  It’s hard to enjoy them after he’s made it all so complicated, but I try.

Other issues:

He insists on doing laundry.  He shrinks things.  He turns bras gray.  He overfills the washing machine.  His folding is adequate & he usually carries it all upstairs, but refuses to put it away.  More than once he’s confused my daughter’s clothing with mine. 

I wore one of her bras to bowling the other evening and the underwire jabbed me in the side every time I threw a ball.  It was painful.

He regularly cleans the kitchen, but I wish he wouldn’t.  It allows him to feel comfortable about complaining when I cook eggs and leave them crisping on the stove in a pan while I sit back down.  It sucks to sit here in the recliner, trying to relax after a trying day of talking to friends on the phone and drinking coffee, when he’s making all kinds of noise and moving pots and pans and dishes around. 

Sometimes I wish he’d just sit down and act like a normal person, maybe drink a beer or complain about something.

He never complains.  I hate that! 

It makes me seem like the world’s most negative person.  I can find something wrong with every minor item you could mention.  It’s one of my favorite hobbies!

When he pays for me to go on one trip or another, to a Broadway show or shopping, he stays home and does yard work.  He does ALL the yard work.  Do you know what it’s like to carry guilt around 24/7?  Heinous, I tell you.

So there it is: yardwork, shopping, laundry, cooking, cleaning.  Oh, yeah, he makes the bed, too.  He rarely farts and never curses. 

A couple of years ago I bought a set of lawn furniture that wouldn’t fit in the back of our truck, so I had to call him to drive across the county at 9:30 at night.  He made it fit.  He also paid for it.  He didn’t complain about that, either.

I hear women bitch all the time about husbands who go out with their friends, drink all the time, smoke and spend hours in stripper joints.  These chicks mow their own grass, make all the meals, break their backs doing laundry and know how to work the dishwasher.

While my husband is taking our daughter out for one more meal at Taco Bell, buying her another iTunes card, driving us to another dental appointment, those other chicks are cleaning their kitchens and making their own beds.

They must feel so good about themselves! 

There are times when I run out of good books to read, there are no new messages on Facebook & the DVR is empty of appealing choices.  I hardly know what to do with myself.

And THAT is why for me

Mother’s Day

is the silliest damned holiday of all.