This day started out all kindsa sucky.
I awoke to The Mister’s alarm. Since The Mister didn’t come to bed until 5:45, he wasn’t hearing it. I thumped him and we had words. I no longer remember what the words were, but it ended with, “Fuck you, don’t tell me what to do!” and his replying, “Fuck you, don’t tell ME what to do!” Once I was sure he had arisen, I went back to sleep for a bit.
We are NOT morning people, and I assure you, this is quite normal for us, and fuck you, don’t tell us how to talk to one another.
When I finally performed the reluctant flipping off of my covers, I realized he didn’t take the dog out. Fuckin bastard. I wandered down the hallway, where I discovered he hadn’t fed the cats, either. Cocksucker. Once I made it into the kitchen, I saw he did not make the coffee. Motherfucker. Then I reached into the pantry for the coffee and saw that he hadn’t taken the garbage out, either. Son of a bitch.
“Studying all night. Pshaw! I suppose now I’ll just do everything!”
Seriously, THIS BITCH NEEDS HER COFFEE. Don’t make me make the coffee.
Time to begin the morning battle with the thermostat. 56 degrees in my house! Goddamn!
Back to the house for the hot coffee and a text from husband, reading “Fuck it’s cold.”
Yeah, I got that when I couldn’t feel my ass, while my thighs had acquired a mild burning sensation through three layers of pants.
I don’t even lock the door anymore. I’d rather be robbed than try to turn a key with the burning fingertips and the arthritis stiffness. Besides, if anyone’s out in this weather lookin for crimes to commit, they’ve got more moxie than I do.
When the weather is so unreasonable, why the hell should I be reasonable?!?
I let the dog just run her little heart out. I figure if anyone’s walkin around the neighborhood, they deserved to be attacked with licking and have belly rubs demanded of them. I’m sorry squirrels, but if you’re on the ground, maybe you deserve to be shaken to death.
Really fucking cold. Too cold for walking the fucking dog.
Then a call from FIL. “I don’t want to alarm you, but I’m in your driveway now. Your hubby sent me to look at the furnace.”
“Oh, I see that now.”
I wasn’t alarmed, I was pissed the fuck off. If my husband is going to ask a man to come to the house, I expect a warning. Because I’m sure FIL was just delighted to find me in my love monkey jammies and no bra. Christ on a cracker.
What the fuck happened to my husband’s brain? Fried up on textbooks, yeah?
You know what room my furnace is in, right? The ugly laundry room. You know what was in my ugly laundry room? Fuckin laundry! I hate people seeing my dirty laundry. Figurative dirty laundry like this is fine, literal dirty laundry is a big, fat nope. Anxiety.
FIL doesn’t know fuck all about furnaces. I can tell, because his dealings with the furnace match my son’s attitude toward cleaning a chicken: Imma look at it, and maybe poke at it a bit, but I’m not actually going to reach inside.
So he gave me a number to call a guy. Actually, he whipped out his antiquated flip phone and dialed, and then handed me his phone. This was one of the most awkward moments of my life.
The HVAC guy called me right back. He happened to be a few blocks away. I told him I’d verify the cost of the service call with my husband and call him right back. I lied. I didn’t verify diddly. I put a bra on, and put the laundry away, then called him back and gave him my address.
HVAC guy took the temperature of all rooms, registers and returns. HVAC guy had great news — He could make the house warmer!
He cleaned the ignition thingy and said we could benefit from a new thermostat. It’s a few degrees off.
It’s amazing how much better a person can feel about things once their fucking feet have thawed. By the time The Mister came home, he’d finished his classes for the week, taken the trash to the bin, (I set it outside, like, “Welcome home, Asshole!”) and ended his week by having lunch with the genial Mr Hill.
After school, we took the girls to Skyline Chili, where the waitress not only tied a bib around my neck, but also asked me if I wanted a to-go cup. So yes, my life is pretty fabulous.
The Mister is taking a nap. Shh…*whispers*
When I was in college, I never studied until 5:45am. If I pulled an all-nighter, it was usually for sex, but it might have been a writing assignment, or insomnia, or because HME and I spent four hours at Waffle House without considering decaf.
I graduated college with a 3.2 because I often felt sex and sleep were more important than studying.
So, I’ll just leave you with this:
I’m worried about his stamina.