Not dead, just hiding

Though I rapidly am at risk of becoming one of those one note blogs...like a MommyBlog, only with whining...I fear that since that is the mood I am in that's all y'all are going to be getting for awhile. Probably until my increased dose of Crazy meds kicks in. Which should be any day now, but in the mean time, I've got to tell y'all about the fucked up shit going on at my house.

My husband and I don't "do" things together. This is because A) I am not terribly fond of him B) he's an assface and C) we don't like to do the same things. One might argue that A & B are the same but then one would risk me crying and shouting things like I hate you for breathing and then I'd sulk and you wouldn't get to read my confessions tomorrow, so perhaps one should just keep ones mouth shut and let me finish my damn story.

ANYWAY, where was I? Oh, yes. Doing things.

J likes manly-man things, like hunting and shooting things and things that go fast and are loud and people who talk loud and drink too much and tell jokes about why women have small feet* and I? I do not. I like to travel, I like to socialize in an environment where I can hear what people are saying and more than anything I DO NOT LIKE DEAD THINGS. Meat comes from Safeway nicely wrapped in cling film and presented on a Styrofoam tray, The End. Which means that when it comes time to do things, more often than not they're separate. I take M to the state fair, he goes hunting. I go on a cruise with BabyMama, he goes hunting. I go to book club, he goes to a long distance rifle match. You get the idea.

But on Sunday? He decided we were going to have some quality time.

What. The. Fuck.

Sundays are MY day. I don't drive anyone anywhere. I clean the house and then I watch everything on the DVR and then we eat take out for dinner. Chances are I do it all wearing yoga pants. I KNOW, RIGHT? But NO. Not this Sunday. This Sunday he plops himself down on the sofa (after moving the laundry I was folding to the coffee table) takes the remote from my lap and changes the channel and announces I may bring him a snack because we're going to have quality time. Then, he insults what I've got set to DVR for the week, informs me that I fold the socks incorrectly and that his drink needs more ice. Because we're having quality time. And when I ask WHY THE FUCK WE'RE HAVING FUCKING QUALITY TIME he tells me it's because he thinks I want it.

WHERE THE SHIT DID HE GET THAT IDEA?

Not from me.

AND THEN?

He stayed home again on Monday afternoon. For more quality time that involved more being an ass to me. Because I "needed attention". Apparently the sort of attention I need involves telling me the delicious quiche I made "sucks" and that I should dust more.

Do you see why we don't do things together?

Thank GOD all my whining and moaning the of phrase ain't you got somewheres you gots to be?! finally conveyed that for fucks sake if he spends one more fucking minute with in my sight I will take that remote and shove it so far up his ass that every time he blinks the channel changes and also that HE NEEDS TO FIND SOMEWHERE ELSE TO BE. For example, not here. Or perhaps NOT ANYWHERE NEAR HERE. A good idea would be SOMEWHERE ELSE. Far away.

This, people. THIS is why Baby Jesus invented Xanax. So that y'all didn't have to mail me bail money.


*So they can stand closer to the sink.