It's not about the fact that I, over the last three years or so, have collected 4 of each state quarter to someday give the full collection to my children, like the dork that I am. It's not about the fact that you knew this, and occasionally assisted me in said collection, remarking several times in the past "are we really planning on having FOUR kids???". It's not even about the fact that you snuck into my special hiding place for the aforementioned collection because you needed some soda and a car wash, and "since you'd already spent some" decided to get a hair cut too. It's about you being such an insensitive boob that you can't understand why I'm pissed. And it's not just the quarters. It's about you selling the golf clubs my dad bought me for my birthday. It's about you watching the baseball playoffs while I was in labor with your first son. It's about me saying "we have to talk" and you falling asleep. It's about not calling when you're late and telling me "I didn't call because I didn't want to hear your shit". It's about me being up with a sick baby all night, and working the next day, and when I finally fall into bed at the end of the evening you waiting till I'm fully asleep to start groping me. It's about how you think that groping me in the middle of the night is a romantic way to wake me up. It's about you lying to me about quitting dipping. It's about you washing your clothes seperately because they somehow might get "ruined" if you wash them with the rest of our clothes. It's about how, when the kids need something at 2 am, and even when you have the next day off, you say "go wake up your mom and tell her". It's about how you have time to play 36 holes of golf and stop for a beer on the way home on your day off, but you don't have time to pick up your son's prescription, or *shudder* actually do something productive at the house. It's about how you take your two days off during the week so that you can play 36 holes of golf and stop for a beer on the way home both days, because the kids are at daycare and therefore you seem to believe you are exempt from all family and household responsibilities. It's about how you think that my problem with this is just because I "hate golf". It's about how I make BFL approved meals/snacks for myself to take to work, and then I find out in the morning that you ate all the puddings, left the dishes in the sink, and took the rest of the meals with you instead. It's about you then coming home and telling me you had subway instead, but you'll probably eat the stuff I made "another day". It's about you peeing on the rim when I'm the only one that cleans the bathroom.
I guess I just can't believe that you, who knows that I know where you sleep at night, are so intent on pushing me to the very edge of enraged psycho violence on an almost daily basis. You know, I've heard stories of women who have actually taken the big knife from the butcher block and plunged it into the heart of their husbands, and, on days like today, I think to myself, "bastard probably spent her quarters."
