Friday was a bad day. A BAAAAADDDD day. Everything was going wrong, I was frustrated, fed up, and I lost it.
I needed to vent, and I totally ranted to the Hubs, then to my mom – over the phone – while I had a houseful of tradesmen working on my kitchen.
Like it wasn’t bad enough I was storming around with chronic bitch face, I let the f-bomb drop more than once. (Thank goodness mom overlooked it.) I let a few choice words fly.
Ok. To be honest, if we were still keeping up with the swear jar, I would have stuck ten bucks in it and called it a day.
It wasn’t like me. I mean, I have been frustrated this past week but I usually do a good job keeping my mouth shut
until I’m alone.
And it was only later that I realized “Ohhhhhh. That was just PMS.”
I really need to mark my calendar.
* * * * *
I was talking to the Hubs as he was making his long commute home from work, and admitted that I was a bit embarrassed that I lost it, but not that much because I was crabby, uncomfortable, had lost the heating pad (again) and needed about a pound of chocolate cake and some vodka. Or Baileys.
He replied “Like that is gonna help!”
You would think after 10 years of marriage the guy would just know to swing by Target and bring home Oreos or brownie bites or SOMETHING.
But no. After 10 years of marriage, he STILL thinks the chocolate craving thing is bull.
He just doesn’t get it.
And yes, he’s lucky he doesn’t get a brick to the head when he makes those kinds of statements.
(After all, I could probably get away with it on an insanity defense. If you heard me storming around the house on Friday, you’d back me up on this one.)
Now excuse me while I go root for a Hershey bar
and a brick. Or something.