I do remember that I swore I’d never say “y’all” but…”you guys” just sounded…wrong.
I’m sure you’ve noticed lately that I keep blaming everything on other, outside issues.
And I’ve come to discover that it really isn’t any of that. At all.
It’s just me. Being a brat. A spoiled, mean little brat.
I tend to cause a lot of unnecessary grief because well, let’s be honest here: I’m a total bitch when I don’t get my way.
And apparently that’s been happening a lot, lately.
I know…I know exactly what you’re thinking. How could a face like this one cause so much trouble?
At least I’ve recognized my problem. That’s step one, I think?
Exhibit A: Last Night at the Dinner Table
I wanted to do a little creative brain storming and asked Tim if we could do said activity during dinner. I grab my notebook and Tim grabs a box of pasta noodles as we sit down to eat. And ironically enough, the box of pasta noodles had nothing to do with my exercise in creativity. He was trying to put his calories in a food tracker app on his iPhone. I get huffy and decide I don’t want to play my game anymore. Ensue pouting for the remainder of the evening (from your’s truly) because I forgot to mention that during dinner meant the second we sat down until whenever I decided we were done. What the fuck, me?
Exhibit B: The Couch
Every single night for the past FIVE YEARS, Tim has always let me lay on the entire length of the couch except for a tiny corner section where his ass fits. And I take advantage of that every. damn. day. If he has to fidget or rearrange his cramped position because his legs fall asleep from the weight of my obnoxious brain? Begin loud, voluntary eye rolling and sighing all, “Well, I was comfortable…” And then he’ll be all, “So sorry your COUCH needed circulation.” In other words, I’m being a bitch again. Noted.
Just so you have a visual, it tends to result in something kind of like this:
Exhibit C: Any Store That Sells a Dress I Like
We have intentionally been avoiding any retail location that involves dresses…or purses. Tim has pretty much said in no uncertain terms that he isn’t going to pull another muscle dragging me out, kicking and screaming. Even when we visit such a place on purpose, he will dutifully be my moving clothes rack and waits right next to the dressing room like a pro while I’m busy yelling about how I’m larger than a double-wide. When it’s HIS turn? I get totally distracted and wander off…or act completely bored like I cannot believe I’m stuck here…waiting around for him. Hold his selected clothes? Ummm…
Yah, I have no idea what he thought he was getting himself into, either.
I think he should be sainted probably about the same time I’m flogged.