The Doghouse

Boy, is he lucky he's cute.

My husband doesn't know it yet, but for the second time this week he finds himself in a dangerous predicament.

To use the vernacular, he done screwed up.

Again.

You see, I am not generally a demanding woman.  I don't ask a lot of my husband.  (I can almost hear him politely coughing to cover up his laughter as I write this.)  All I want is that my every demand on his time and energy be acknowledged, adhered to, and that he do his utmost to make my life as easy and pleasant as possible.

See?  Not that much.  Generally, this just means taking out the trash/recycling/dirty diapers, emptying the dishwasher, switching over laundry, occasionally changing diapers, and picking up groceries on his way home from work.  Not even all the groceries.  Just a gallon of milk or a loaf of bread.  Easy groceries.

Normally, he does very well.  He is a champion of emptying the dishwasher, rarely leaves laundry to sit wet all night, and almost always calls on his way home to see if he should pick something up.

But that bit about doing his utmost to make my life easy and pleasant?

Oh, husband, Hell hath no fury.

You see, this is my last week of classes... as you probably know if you read my post of a few hours previous.  My last week of classes.  And last weekend, I took time away from my studies to go to M's family's reunion.  Which I do not in any way begrudge- I LOVE M's family, and I was more than happy to do it.  But you must understand, I don't have a lot of time to do things that I otherwise need to do around the house this week.  Like, say, eat.

Which is why when M got home on Tuesday, he found Our Mary Poppins watching the girls, and me in our bedroom, hiding and studying.

When he came in and said hello, I informed him that as of that moment, approximately 3:30pm, I had yet to eat breakfast.  I was too busy studying.

So I took off for class, and M took care of the girls. 

After class, he asked me to pick up a loaf of bread on my way home.  No problem.  Groceries are a two way street.  But at the store, it occurred to me how DESPERATELY hungry I was.  So I got the loaf of bread, and I ogled the other foods.  I picked up a ready-made bowl of fresh pasta with pesto.  But no, that wasn't fair.  That wasn't nice.   I shouldn't get myself some nice fancy dinner and eat it without M.  (This is what we call foreshadowing.)  I put down the pasta... and then the falafel... and then assortment of fancy cheese... and I picked up two packages of cookies for us to eat together after we had a quick dinner.

And then I went home.

And there was my husband, sitting at his desk, guilt all over his face.
And there was the empty pizza box.
...from my favorite pizza place.
...and nothing for me.

Did he know I hadn't eaten anything all day?  Yes, he knew that.
Did he know I was having a stressful and difficult week?  Yes, he knew that.
Did he know that I had just been in the grocery store where I could have gotten a nice something for myself to eat if I'd been forewarned?  Yes, he knew that too.

Oh, how I made him rue the day.  I berated him, guilt tripped him mercilessly, and generally made a gigantic show of my misery until he picked up the phone and ordered me a chile rellenos burrito from a Mexican restaurant that he hates, and brought me a glass of lemonade.

No, I told him,  you can't go to bed.  You have to sit here and rub my feet and watch me eat my damn burrito.  And you THINK about what you've done!

Needless to say, a foot rub, an ice cold lemonade, a delicious delicious chile rellenos burrito and a few episodes of Scrubs later, he was back in my good graces.

The next morning, he emptied the trash.  Like a champ.
That night, he ordered pizza for me.  Like a rock star.

But today he's in the doghouse again.

Because when he emptied the dishwasher, he once again forgot where all the bowls go in the kitchen.  And instead of putting my very heavy Pyrex mixing bowl with the mixing bowls, he hid it inside of my pretty (and very lightweight) popcorn bowl.

The bowl that goes on the top shelf in the kitchen, above the popcorn maker.

The bowl that I can't reach, because I'm very short, but when I want popcorn all I have to do is gently tip the stack of platters underneath the bowl, and it comes sliding gently into reach.

Visualize, if you will, a short and hungry lady, studying for her final final of the summer, and all she wants is a little popcorn.

Visualize, if you will, her naivete as she reaches for her beloved popcorn bowl, and tips the stack of platters to send it sliding into reach.

Now visualize, if you will, the noise that a light weight wooden bowl filled with a very heavy Pyrex bowl makes as it comes ZOOMING (thanks, gravity!) off the shelf and collides with massive force into her forehead.

Can you picture it?  Because I sure can.  Or at least, I could if the glowing thing that keeps floating in and out of my vision would stop distracting me for a few moments.

M, you'd better hope you read this before we meet again tonight.  Because no amount of foot rubs in the world is going to cut it this time.