Usually I don't vent about the inadequacies of my spouse on here, because for one, I don't think it's fair because I'm certain you'll all come back with comments agreeing with me, and for two, well, because I air some dirty laundry, but not all of it, and three, because there's really not that much to complain about when it comes to my husband.
But here's the truth.
I am Sleeping With The Enemy.
Ha. Not really, what I mean is, sometimes I think they based that character in the Julia Roberts movie on my husband's analness. Not the beating me up part; he never does that, but the absurdness of his analness as the older he gets is becoming a bit, shall we say, extreme?
For instance, it is, what? Two days after Christmas. He is getting hives practically because there is stuff all over the place, toys, wrapping, ornaments, by God -- A CHRISTMAS TREE IS STILL IN OUR HOUSE, and it's TWO DAYS POST-CHRISTMAS!
So, what am I doing? I'm lying on the couch, eating my Marshall Field's Frango mints my wonderful M-I-L got me for Christmas, with my iTunes blasting in my ears, and I'm just having the time of my life, relaxing, enjoying the post holiday cheer.
I am taking down Xmas shit, and it was my idea, because I'm done with it, over it all, and Mr. Sleeping With The Enemy is home from work early, and he mutters, "This place is a dump."
Excuse fucking me?
"What did you just say?"
"I was talking to myself."
"Well, you spoke out loud so obviously, you intended for me to hear you."
We fight, I tell him he has no clue; we have three children who are trying to play with their gifts and you want me to put them all away, you Scroogey MF. I don't say all of this, I'm just telling it to you now.
What did he do for Christmas?
Did he put up the outside lights? No.
Did he put up the Christmas tree? Yes.
I'll give him that; he assembled the fake spruce and put it up.
Did he decorate the tree? No.
Did he shop for his family's gifts, or offer any suggestions on what to buy for them? No.
Did he wrap any of the gifts for his family? No.
Did he even know what our kids would be opening on Christmas day? No.
I did. Because I bought ever last-mother-fucking item, thankyouverymuch.
Did he make any of the appetizers for Christmas Day? No.
Did he bake, or in my case, attempt to bake anything? No.
Did he make the Christmas dinner? No.
Will he take down the tree? No.
Will he take down the outside lights I put up? No.
And he thinks he's right, and he thinks that our house should be immaculate even though we have three young children who have their two-day-old Christmas gifts strewn about the house; even though we are in the midst of a fairly big rennovation project with our laundry room and things are a bit dusty and messy; even though, by God, I've just busted my freaking ass for the last month to make it a nice Christmas for my family and all I get is, "This place is a dump."