PHubby is Peeling Raw Shrimp in the Living Room Again

A battle rages within me.

It's the rage beside the rage.

Does PHubby love me more than I love him, or am I really a lot less annoying than he is?

I mean, I could list about a hundred things he does that annoy me, and I am completely aware that a bunch of it is not his fault and that I am just an old, crotchety, only child who really likes her alone time and is spending lots of quality time with Phubby now that he is laid off and I am working from home and OMG, when is he ever going to leave???? But, I mean. I totally love him. Not even sarcastically. I do. He's great.

I'm just a bad person.

And what makes all this worse?

He is so fucking nice. Seriously, if you don't get along with PHubby, it's almost definitely your fault.

He is especially nice to me. He is always asking if I need anything, bringing me refreshing beverages, and recommending I schedule massages.

I know.

Also? He caters to my annoying idiosyncrasies.

Farting in my sleep? Doesn't even mention it, unless I bring up how I woke myself up farting and I'm really sorry about the gas. Even then, he just casually laughs it off.

Really, the only time he gets cross with me is when I hold the phone between my ear and shoulder, but that's only because he's looking out for my best interest. (My shoulder gets knots in it.) And the only other time was when the kids were younger and I didn't wash the milk out of their sippie cups during the day, because I didn't have time to pee or brush my teeth (not an exaggeration), let alone rinse out their stupid fucking sippie cups, and I would have appreciated him getting off my ass about it already, but we went to therapy and I heard his words and I acknowledged his feelings and their validity and we've moved on together as partners in life and parenting.

And now I wash out the fucking sippie cups because I don't need to pay someone hundreds of dollars to bullshit PHubby into thinking I value his opinion on sippie cups and no longer want to lunge across the room with my fork and stab him in the jugular. Ahem. Where was I?

Right. PHubby. Two times. Two things in 12 years I can think of that annoyed him.

Meanwhile, he chews a little loudly or brushes crumbs onto the floor (ever heard of a napkin?) and I give him the death stare. It looks like this:

I know. I suck. And, like I previously mentioned, he caters to my idiosyncrasies.

My biggest pet peeve in life is wet hands and coffee grounds.

Seriously, I would rather have to comb chewed gum out of my hair than wipe cold coffee grounds off my knuckles. I would rather someone peel my eyeballs like grapes and pop them, bloodied, back into my sockets than have icky wet coffee fingers. I would rather my labia be skinned and my clitoris seared with a cigarette lighter, while Satan rams poisonous fire darts into all my orifices, than have to remove wet grounds from the skin between my fingers.

I would rather - you know what? Let's just leave it there. I think you catch my drift.

Anyway, one of the nicest things PHubby does for me is clean my cappuccino maker, even though he doesn't drink anything made with espresso at home.

I'm over the moon every time I decide to make myself a mocha and find the espresso maker completely clean. I think, "Aw. He loves me. He's so thoughtful. Lalala."

Then, I twirl a little, make my mocha, write a sonnet, and squirt.

Lately, though, lately, I've begun to notice a pattern with the espresso maker, and I'm pretty sure that it is in your best interest that I stop putting out on a regular basis.

Sorry. You'll probably have to click to enlarge this.