I told him this morning while he was nagging me to vacuum: I prefer doing brainless activities in the afternoon. I reserve mornings -- when my brain cells are peppy -- for creative ventures -- writing, art, writing ... All I get is a smug gaze begging "What the hell are you on about now?"
He really sucks.
And here I am at 11 p.m. writing about my husband, because I'm too slow and brain dead to write about the stuff I wanted to write about.
I've started, stopped and saved three posts tonight -- this is my fourth. It will serve as a warning to my significant other that the punishment for f***ing with my creative time is public disclosure of bathroom rituals -- like he even cares.
Husbands are horrible. No offense, men -- but they're totally, stupid barf-bucket butt-faces.
I beg Jerod not to disturb me. I close the door to muffle the sounds of the children, and it seems like he barges in every 15 minutes -- "Why is the door closed?"
"You should really leave the door open, and let the air circulate."
"What do you want for dinner."
"Were you going to vacuum today?"
"You shouldn't fold the towel like that, because it won't dry right."
Perhaps if I looked and sounded like Jack Nicholson from The Shining: