kkhh

Three things I love about my sweet Cub:

1) He turns off the TV/Xbox/computer when I get home, and we talk. This means the world to me.

2) He is always looking for ways to improve himself, and us as a couple.

3) He is darn cute.

That said ... I really need to b!tch right now. This is merely a rant, a rant. (Picture Mercutio laughing it off: "A scratch, a scratch.") <-- On second thought, that was right before he died of his "scratch" so nvm, don't picture that.

Last night we spent a few minutes planning tonight's date. Despite the fact that we went to see "GI Joe" last week (which I enjoyed, but it was definitely his pick), Cub tried for "D9" for tonight AND, after he asked where I wanted to eat and I replied Tenkaippin, he said, "How about pho?" I dislike pho and large-screen gore really bothers me (he knows both of these things), but the mother of all irritations happened after his insistence that I take an HPT this weekend because I have been "moody" and "eating a lot." If I have explained ovulation to him once I've explained it a thousand times, but he still seemed pretty convinced that a little zygote was responsible for my new and unattractive behavior.

So then. As we were getting ready for bed, he complained that the cat (my cat, the little old one) had crapped in her litterbox and that the smell was permeating the entire bedroom. (A definite exaggeration, but I moved to take care of it right away.) Here is a list of things I did while he tucked himself into bed:

- emptied the entire contents of the litter pan into a trash bag
- vacuumed the bathroom floor
- disinfected the bathroom floor with bleach
- hauled a 30-lb box of cat litter in from outside
- refilled the litter pan
- vacuumed some more and filled the canister to the very brim because I asked him a week ago to empty it.
- took the box of litter back outside. <-- at least it was lighter then

Now I know. Our mothers are not insane shrews who shriek at our fathers for nothing. Our mothers (all of whom are a million times the housekeeper I am) have shit to do so our homes do not fall down around our ears, and what they'd like is a little help.

This would be less annoying if he weren't so convinced that I'm pregnant. The man thinks I am pregnant, yet it's fine with him that I inhale noxious cleaning product fumes and carry heavy crap back and forth and clean out the litterbox at 11 p.m. (pg women aren't even supposed to scoop out the litterbox due to the ammonia.)

However, THE single most irritating thing about all of this is that I still have not worked out a way to tell him how ridiculous last night was. He asked me this morning, and I told him, but after he apologized and said he should have done the litter himself, it was more, "See? So moody. I bet you're pregnant." I have learned from Vickie (and from my other good friend, Past Experience) that to yell is to shoot myself in the damned_foot. But only if my aim is poor. Sometimes a woman needs to raise her voice.

All I know is, he's buying the HPT and we are so not eating pho on our date tonight.