I have been known to yell at my husband.
Bad ass, I know. And not entirely the Man’s fault.
Although a large portion of it is his car’s responsibility.
I’ve talked before about my Man’s other woman, Tin Lizzie. An ’84 Holden tonner that currently has no wheels, no engines, no seats… not much of anything, really.
But oh, how he loves her. And he has a tendency to disappear into his shed to stroke and rub her just on the 5pm hour of Absolute Feralness; when the kids, dog and cat are all hungry, the adult dinner is overflowing on the stove, and the washing needs to be bought in before it becomes irreversibly damp (Have I mentioned before that my clothes line is so damp and totally crap that it actually grows mold? No? Remind me to post about that soon.)
Hence the yelling.
Whatever. Karma definitely came back and bit me for all that cranky-pantsing the other day.
It’s 5:12pm. One child is screaming for something undetermined, the other is screaming for PlaySchool. I’ve been attempting to peel the same potato for the last twenty minutes.
Baby on my hip, potato dirt wiped on my trackies, boogers (probably not my own) on my shirt. I traipse out to our back shed, which opens onto the lane way behind our house. From the doorway, I spot the Man at the open roller door. With a beer in his hand.
“MAN!! Any chance you could come give me a hand when you’re finished, huh? Or is that too bleeping difficult?”
“Uh, yeah, darl, I’m just finishing up out here”
*This is where Lori rolls her eyes* “Oh, it really looks like you’re working hard.”
“Ahem. Just having a beer with the new neighbor”.
Ahhh. The new neighbor. Who somewhat sheepishly- but not quite sheepishly enough- steps into view.
Why, hello there. I mutter an excuse about needing to go inside and peel potatoes. Look for a big hole to crawl into. Or a natural disaster to distract everyone.
I will never be nasty to my husband again*.
*And I kept that promise for at least the next
36 12 3 hours.