You Just Don't Want To!

My lovely little children, demonic monstrosities from a hell dimension that they are, have sicked me up. Again.

Or maybe it was my darling husband. Again.

I don't know which one is responsible. I also don't care which of the jerks did it. All I know is that I want a) relief from this and b) retribution.

I don't know how to achieve either.

Tylenol hasn't helped. Advil hasn't helped. Naproxen hasn't helped. Not a damned thing has helped.

Hot shower? Tried it. Popsicles? Tried them too. Temporary relief at best- and false hope at worst.

My throat feels like I ate a brick, chased it by chewing lit cigars and swallowed really old bong water (not that I would know anything about that). My body aches, I have a manic depressive fever that comes and goes with insane, completely unpredictable randomness. And I can't hear out of my left ear. WTF? What kind of sickness did they give me? It's like some horrid cross between a viral strep infection and a inner ear gnome who eats crackers on my ear drum.

Obviously, my family will be 'ground' zero for the next global pandemic of  'feeling crappy' (without having something curable). Complete chaos reigns in my living room right now, because I feel too icky to fix it.

This is balls. I'm going to start sterilizing myself after every form of interaction I have with any of these people. I'll put my universal precaution skills to the test. Glove up to tuck them in, wash my hands after hugging them, and changing clothing before leaving their bedroom.

Not that I'm complaining (yes, I bloody well am). I love them. Very, very much. But I am sick of being tired, sick of being achy and sick of being sick.

My momma called tonight, and when she found out I was home from work, we chatted for a very brief time (because my damned throat was too sore to talk to her). And I suddenly remembered being sick, at age 9, with the chicken pox.

And I remember SCREAMING at her (as a 9 year old), "You know how to make me feel better! You just don't want to!"

And now, looking back on it, she probably did know how to cure the chicken pox, but letting me suffer was the only form of retribution she could exact from a 9 year old.

I hope my kids get sick again, so I can withold a vital cure, like oatmeal baths. That'll learn them.

Underpants anyone?

I'm a big fan of direct speech, and being honest with people. That being said, I found myself plotting a small amount of vindictiveness against my husband yesterday. A small amount of passive aggressive vindictiveness to be exact.

I was irritated by his grouchy behaviour. I know he was tired. I know he works nights, and frequently has a hard time being awake during the day. I get it. And usually I'm the first person to send him to bed when he's tired (he turns into a ridiculous, whiny, snotty baby when he's tired). But yesterday was Bugs' confirmation, so D had to be awake, and gracious, and courteous; but, he was making faces and acting like a child about having to go to Church (Thankfully, he wasn't whining while we were there, just while we were dressing).

So I hid his favourite underpants.

The way he fixates on his underwear borders on weirdo behaviour.

"They're so soft... They've got just the right amount of stretch.... They are just the right size.." And on and on.

So, since I didn't like his attitude, when he went to shower, I 'mislaid' his favourite pair of underwear. He had to wear a pair of his "second string" underpants. HA!

At the time when I did this, I wasn't REALLY angry about anything, more disgruntled. But I'll tell you, it made my WHOLE day better. Knowing he wasn't wearing the underpants he would have chosen- well, it just made me feel happy to be small and petty, especially since he didn't know I'd done anything at all.

And for my bad behaviour? I got rewarded. D decided that the reason he couldn't find his underwear is the ever growing, never ending, slowly taking over the universe, pile of laundry.

So he used his night off and did the laundry. He packed it all up, drove to an all night laundry mat and washed, dried and folded all the clothes. He even took the blankets off the couch and the kids' jackets.

I mean WOW. Well done.

Now though, I feel like a super ass. Not because I did it, I'll probably end up doing the same thing again next time he makes me grouchy. But I feel like an asshat because I didn't think of this sooner. If I hid all of his favourite things, he'd have to do laundry more frequently if he wanted to have clean clothes.


I have spent YEARS, and I actually mean YEARS, begging D to help me with the laundry, to clean up more frequently, to do the dishes once in a while. It truly grinds my crank that after all this time, all I had to do was hide his clothes.

The end result is that I've learned that being honest, upfront, talking through your feelings and trying to be selfless isn't as rewarding as being passive aggressive and hiding underpants. THAT is what gets the laundry done. And eff him for making me do it.