Like most wives, I annoy my husband on the regular.
Most of these things are due to differences in perception.
For instance, I think I will DIE if I don’t have a drink at all times, and he thinks I won’t. “Lemme get a to-go cup. No, I cannot make the drive from home to Starbucks without a drink! That’s like, two miles or somethin!”
He hates it when I ask the wait staff to bring to-go cups, although he might be comin around, cause he orders one from time to time.
He thought he would make fun of me with my parents, “She can’t go anywhere without a drink!”
They looked at him like there should be more to the story.
Ahahaha! Please, my parents probably own stock in Tervis, and if they don’t, they should, really.
I strongly suspect he hates how I take in animals, no matter how much he loves them. He’s always like, “We don’t need another cat,” or “We have two cats, we don’t need a dog,” or “We have two cats and a dog, we don’t need a goldfish, a pair of goats and some chickens.” I’m not sure he loves my Clara cat, because he’s always calling her an attention whore and accusing her of being jealous, but he pets her anyway. He loves Catticus kitty, and that dog he didn’t want me to rescue!? Oh yeah, he loves that dog more than he loves chocolate, and he spoils her rotten. Just rotten.
He hates how I remember every little thing, except when I remember where his shit is, how he likes to be touched, which foods and flavors he likes, how he takes his coffee, or which jeans were his favorite so we can buy another pair exactly like them, and well, just every little thing, unless it involves something he said or did that might have been a wee bit dickish.
I could go on an on, really, I’m extremely annoying, both to live with, and about making lists about how I’m extremely annoying.
But last night, I may have overdone it on annoying. Let me tell you how this went, from my perception of his perspective:
I got up at six o’clock in the morning, and took that bitch’s dog out, while she slept comfortably in the white sheets with the embroidered detail that I think are too fuckin girly.
I fed that bitch’s cats, even the white one that she loves more than me.
I made that bitch some coffee.
I put on my white shirt and my black paisley tie. Bitches love ties.
I drove to work, through the clusterfuck that is I-465, being cut-off by fucktards in every direction.
I worked hard all day, helping rich clients solve their imaginary financial problems.
‘Ooh, did my wife just post a photo of pot roast? I fuckin love pot roast. At least when I’m done here, I can go home, sit on my couch, eat pot roast and watch tv.’
I drove home to find my house was a disaster. It looked like a bomb went off. Fortunately, my wife and daughters weren’t harmed during the incident, but my house was wrecked.
Then that bitch told me she did it on purpose! Bitches be crazy.
I’ve got a couch, a loveseat and a chair, but there was only one place to sit, because the whole fuckin livin room was covered in books.
Then that bitch said somethin about bein sorry, but Sassy had broken the bookshelf, and could I please fix it? Because I have to fix fucking everything.
That bitch rearranged the living room again!
I thought I would just go hang up my tie and chillax a mo, but the bomb had impacted the hallway outside of Moo’s room, and I’ll be damned if I didn’t hafta play fuckin hopscotch to get to my bedroom.
Roast smelled fuckin good, though.
I had to eat dinner at the table, with my wife and children, without tv, because again with the book explosion.
That bitch covered my plate in gravy and didn’t even make me eat a carrot, and that’s how I know she felt really bad about what she’d done, but not bad enough, because she forgot to pour me a glass of swate tay.
I ate my dinner in silence so I could focus on making the veins in my head pop out, so as to make sure my unhappiness was felt by all who made eye contact with me.
Don’t you know that bitch wasn’t fuckin phased? She went on and on all happy and shit, talkin about what the girls did, and how much she loves her new mixer, and won’t it be nice when we can look out the windows? Fuckin cheerful bitches. Goddamn.
“We’ll just go buy another bookshelf,” she said.
After dinner, I had to balance the checkbook, because I, too, have imaginary financial problems that make me think a $35 bookshelf will ruin me.
Although my wife told me she would go buy the bookshelf, and that I could stay home in the fuckin mess she made, I told her I would go, because bookshelves are heavy. She informed me that if I didn’t go, the store would provide her with a carry-out. Since I remember that carry-out boy she fucked in 1996, I went.
When we got to the store, the item was opened and I refused to buy it, because with my luck, I’d get home and all the hardware would be missing, and my wife would say some dumb shit like, “Don’t we have cams and metal screws in the hardware drawer? Or in your man bag or somethin?” Gah, bitches.
We drove to the second store, but they didn’t have any in the right color. My wife suggested we buy two whole new bookshelves in a different color. AHA! That bitch was schemin for new furniture! Twice as much money.
We had to buy Moo some bullshit craft thing and another toy for my dog to destroy in less than an hour. What the fuck ever.
Once we got home, I carried the one remaining bookshelf to Sassy’s room, and then I had to assemble those two new bookshelves in a totally different color. My wife can’t assemble a fuckin paper plane, for Chrissake.
Oh she said she would help, then it was all, “My hands! My hands!” Her bookshelf was all wobbly and shit.
Then, while I bolted them to the wall, that bitch got all touchy-feely, talkin dirty to me like I hadn’t been up all night fixin shit she broke for no good reason whatsoever.
Eventually, at like one o’clock in the morning, that bitch got all the books back on the shelf and we sat on our furniture the way God intended.
We went to bed at two, and that bitch better never rearrange a fuckin thing. She ain’t movin those bookshelves, ain’t no way she can get those screws out with “My hands! My hands!”
And that, Ladies, is why you must always, always finish rearranging the house before your man gets home, and why you must never, ever, break anything in the process.