Just...Arugh
May. 12th, 2005 08:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
charliesmumI don't know why, but things just went downhill on me when I got home this evening.
Started out okay - Husband was home earlier than usual - he had a training thing and it ended early, so that was nice. It was early, it was a nice day, I thought maybe we could all do something, but husband was tired because last night he had a long evening of playing with his band and then going out for beer, so he fell asleep on the couch. Despite the fact I've pointed out to him, citing examples from numerous learned people, he doesn't believe me that you can't catch up on sleep, and that you should really just deal with being tired one day and then go to bed at your usual hour. Of course he doesn't have a usual hour, because he's constantly staying out late like a teenager with no curfew and then sleeping til noon whenever he can. So, he naps, I let him, I start defrosting chicken and sit down to watch a rerun of the Simpsons and read more of Hitchhiker's Guide.
He wakes up about an hour later, and says how he feels great and then snarks at me that I should not wake him up when he naps because he feels so good now. Whatever. So he wakes up then goes upstairs to check his email or something. I get the chicken out of the microwave, shake-n-bake it, and stick it in the oven. Then I decide that I'm going to go outside and start emptying the stupid bloody truck that has been sitting, broken down, in our driveway since January, despite numerous promises that it is going to be taken care of 'this week, I just have to clean it out.' So I shout that I'm going out to start the cleaning and again he snarks at me not to touch it and he'll do it. Like there's something valuable in the truck I might break or something.
I swear, the thing looks like a giant, truck shaped skip. It's full of paper and trash and the occasional rusty tool. Fine. Whatever. But you know what? I'm sick of the thing sitting in our driveway making us look like hillbillies. It was worse when he had two broken down trucks in the driveway. All it needed was a Camaro up on blocks and the picture was complete. So I'm fed up, and I snark that if it isn't gone by the end of the weekend, I'm calling someone. And he tells me to, and this is an exact quote, shut the fuck up. In front of Charlie. He does this alot.
Apparently I'm not allowed to have any opinions or feelings or anything that might actually contridict his. I'm not allowed to be annoyed at rusting trucks in my driveway or the fact that I spent a large hunk of Mother's Day driving to New Egypt to get another truck and didn't even get a bouquet of flowers or a card, or even a "Happy Mother's Day." He said it to the guy we bought the truck from, but not me.
And I knew we had to go get the truck, but it would be nice if he acknowledged the fact it was something I didn't want to do and was cutting into a day that (and I don't ask for much, really) could at least offer me a stupid Hallmark card.
:
So, I'm upset, and don't feel like getting into a shouting match, because it never ends well, so Charlie and I go for a walk, and he plays on a playground, and I feel better, and we find butter cups on the way home, and i showed Charlie that, if you hold them up to your chin they'll reflect yellow. He thought that was pretty cool, and it made me smile because I realised I was passing on a bit of my own childhood to him.
However, the god of annoying things wasn't done with me yet, and when we got home I was watering my flowers and did one of those stupid sitcom things where I was carrying two pitchers of water outside, and when i tried to set one down, I spilled the other one all over the front porch. Later I spilled water on my end table, broke a fingernail when I was emptying the dishwasher and dropped a plate which smashed into lots of tiny pieces. (taking a carton of salt with it, lots of spilled salt on the floor.)
And tomorrow is Friday the 13th.
Started out okay - Husband was home earlier than usual - he had a training thing and it ended early, so that was nice. It was early, it was a nice day, I thought maybe we could all do something, but husband was tired because last night he had a long evening of playing with his band and then going out for beer, so he fell asleep on the couch. Despite the fact I've pointed out to him, citing examples from numerous learned people, he doesn't believe me that you can't catch up on sleep, and that you should really just deal with being tired one day and then go to bed at your usual hour. Of course he doesn't have a usual hour, because he's constantly staying out late like a teenager with no curfew and then sleeping til noon whenever he can. So, he naps, I let him, I start defrosting chicken and sit down to watch a rerun of the Simpsons and read more of Hitchhiker's Guide.
He wakes up about an hour later, and says how he feels great and then snarks at me that I should not wake him up when he naps because he feels so good now. Whatever. So he wakes up then goes upstairs to check his email or something. I get the chicken out of the microwave, shake-n-bake it, and stick it in the oven. Then I decide that I'm going to go outside and start emptying the stupid bloody truck that has been sitting, broken down, in our driveway since January, despite numerous promises that it is going to be taken care of 'this week, I just have to clean it out.' So I shout that I'm going out to start the cleaning and again he snarks at me not to touch it and he'll do it. Like there's something valuable in the truck I might break or something.
I swear, the thing looks like a giant, truck shaped skip. It's full of paper and trash and the occasional rusty tool. Fine. Whatever. But you know what? I'm sick of the thing sitting in our driveway making us look like hillbillies. It was worse when he had two broken down trucks in the driveway. All it needed was a Camaro up on blocks and the picture was complete. So I'm fed up, and I snark that if it isn't gone by the end of the weekend, I'm calling someone. And he tells me to, and this is an exact quote, shut the fuck up. In front of Charlie. He does this alot.
Apparently I'm not allowed to have any opinions or feelings or anything that might actually contridict his. I'm not allowed to be annoyed at rusting trucks in my driveway or the fact that I spent a large hunk of Mother's Day driving to New Egypt to get another truck and didn't even get a bouquet of flowers or a card, or even a "Happy Mother's Day." He said it to the guy we bought the truck from, but not me.
And I knew we had to go get the truck, but it would be nice if he acknowledged the fact it was something I didn't want to do and was cutting into a day that (and I don't ask for much, really) could at least offer me a stupid Hallmark card.
:
So, I'm upset, and don't feel like getting into a shouting match, because it never ends well, so Charlie and I go for a walk, and he plays on a playground, and I feel better, and we find butter cups on the way home, and i showed Charlie that, if you hold them up to your chin they'll reflect yellow. He thought that was pretty cool, and it made me smile because I realised I was passing on a bit of my own childhood to him.
However, the god of annoying things wasn't done with me yet, and when we got home I was watering my flowers and did one of those stupid sitcom things where I was carrying two pitchers of water outside, and when i tried to set one down, I spilled the other one all over the front porch. Later I spilled water on my end table, broke a fingernail when I was emptying the dishwasher and dropped a plate which smashed into lots of tiny pieces. (taking a carton of salt with it, lots of spilled salt on the floor.)
And tomorrow is Friday the 13th.
