My husband has a cold. He doesn't know it but I do because it's the same ornery cold I had last week that involves a killer headache and over the top- orneriness. I didn't tell him because apparently it's a bad thing if you catch a cold and pass along the virus- after all, one should be able to control these things. If I hear, one more time in my life, "I've caught YOUR cold" in an accusatory tone- well, it will just be one time, too many. If nothing else, my husband has mastered the fine art of blame, passed on from generations of polish people before him.
So I didn't tell him that he may be just a little extra ornery for the next five days. That he should take a tylenol and shut himself away in a room away from innocent bystanders. Nope. Didn't tell him. So I suppose this really is my fault? Probably. Don't care.
After he decided to insult me in five different ways within the first hour of our joyous daily reunion, I removed myself from his presence. He made dinner. I ignored him. I ate peanut butter and jelly and wrapped up his feast and put it in his sandwich box, in the fridge. He went to bed and I settled in to my time alone.
But I was unsatisfied. He really pisses me off. That's all I can say. Life is crappy. I am not happy at work. My kids turn me into a screaming ninny. I have no money. I have to stay up late into the night to cultivate my inner artist so that I don't feel the need to jump off the top of my house. So I really just don't need this person giving me crap, ya know? And, I am not a doormat- I will not accept bad behaviour as routine.
So to air my dis-pleasure I decided to fill his lunch box with rolls of toilet paper. Yes, I am 40 years old. Yes, it has come to this.