(This in no way has anything to do with having been stuck in the house with you through two blizzards this week and your terrible attitude this morning and me staring down the weekend like it's the unfriendly end of a sawed-off shotgun. FWIW.)
(P.S. I totally love you. FWIW.)
Dear PHubby,
When I'm mad at you, I am very quiet. Eerie, isn't it?
I hope you are afraid.
You should be.
I am silently judging everything you do and keeping score. Here is a list from this afternoon:
* You straightened the desk *
Oh, how kind of you! You pitched in! I suppose you're making a point about me not having straightened it. That's OK. The day you open any piece of mail or pay a bill, I'll feel guilty. Chalk one up in my column, toots.
* You walked upstairs with a manila folder looking all square-jawed and proud, probably thinking about how much more mature you are than I am because *you* are doing actual work, while *I* am probably just spending these three hours with the crazies on a true crime forum, reading about missing people. *
Hmph. Shows how much you know. While I just brewed coffee in the french press, I swept and mopped the downstairs bathroom. Then, I folded the laundry that just came out of the dryer and piled it neatly on the back of the sofa. I know you saw me because I very dramatically carried the laundry behind you so you would notice and I used really big movements to fold the laundry and made sure I was in your peripheral vision. That's why, when you walked upstairs with your manila folder and *did not* take your laundry pile, I decided I'd won this round.
* You walked upstairs with your manila folder and your smuggy face, looking all self-righteous *
As soon as your head was above the first-floor ceiling height, I made lots of faces at you. I felt a lot better. I win.
* I'm not even going to bring up the fact that I turned on the romantic movie we agreed to watch at 3:15 p.m. and immediately after I turned it on, you walked upstairs with previously mentioned manila folder, looking all square-jawed and
Except I just did bring it up, and it's a hell of a good point. Score one for me.
* You came downstairs, walked into the living room, lit a fire, waited the appropriate 5 to 7 minutes to turn down the flame, all the while crouching down in your jeans just so, showing off your side profile with your five-o'clock shadow and your squared-off jaw with your nostrils just slightly flared in some sort of manly anger/raw animal instinct kind of way, in that shirt with your "I shoveled eight shit tons of snow this week" shoulders, and you did not even mention the movie or say anything at all to me, and walked out to the desk, where you continued to do real work. *
I'm totally distracted by your hotness, but I don't want to back down. Basically, no matter how many points I've already racked up, I'm very obviously losing. I just hope you don't figure it out before you rightfully apologize for being a prick.
Love,
Me
P.S. Take off your pants when you're apologizing to me.
