I'll blame it on my hormones, lest I blame it on Rob. Or, I'll blame it on the fact that I just posted "a day in the life" about how perfect my life is. That'll show me.
I've been rejiggering my hormone therapy a bit, unbeknownst to my doctor. When certain side effects crop up I do some reading and tweaking, even when he insists there is no correlation. Ya well, I've had enough adult acne to last me a lifetime, thank you very much, so I'm going to fuss with my dosages. Vanity wins. It's been a few weeks since I dickered with it, and so far the results have been positive. Last night I looked at the bottle of DHEA I've been skipping. Apparently, just looking at the bottle was enough to cause me to wake up in a pool of sweat 5 hours later.
But this morning I was on a mission. My house is a wreck since I've been unwell for so long, so after rising at 5:50 - that's a.m. people - to get Brady off to school (urgh, UG, that is an ungodly hour), I got busy. I cleaned out the van which was so cluttered you could lose small children in there. My nephew has been safely returned to his mama, you'll be pleased to know, having survived on shriveled half-sandwiches and ketchup packets found under the bench seat. (Kidding.) I unloaded the dishwasher and reloaded it with the dirty dishes from the over-flowing sink. (Don't you hate it when you can fill the dishwasher as soon as it's emptied?) I did 3 loads of laundry, actually folding and putting away the clothes as they came out of the dryer. (I know! It's gotta be the wonky hormones.) And it was just as I was done scrubbing the sink and toilet in the boys' bathroom that Rob
I stopped my toilet-scrubbing and washed my hands and caught up with Rob in the laundry room to give him a kiss good-bye. (I'm a really doting wife like that. Well, today anyway.) And that's when he said, playfully, "Come here."
I followed him into the kitchen where he made a slightly-mocking, passive-aggressive display of turning off the light I'd left on. "Do you see a difference in how well you can see if the light is on or off? I can't."
So I began a thoughtful reply, which went something like, "Well whine whine I'd turned it on earlier snark moan excuse-growl-excuse when it was still dark outside pout rant snarl and besides you should duck now I've been BUSY WASHING TOILETS AND DOING LAUNDRY seriously, run, run fast all morning and rage-whine-excuse-pout-choke-suffocate-xidurjsleuf-soeurfeiai-xryihezafhpe."
"I'm just concerned about global warming," Rob was quick to offer, amused at my defensiveness, a remark that would normally make me swell with pride that I'd married such a conscientious, environmentally-concerned man.
Not this time. This time I swelled instead with rage and excuses and snarky retorts and ugly words like "Nevermind that I was just cleaning YOUR pee off the toilet." I know. I'm amazed at my
"So stop yelling at me," I continued.
"I'm NOT yelling at you," he laughed.
It is an unspoken rule in our house, the elephant in the room if you will, that I'm
Rob left. I sent him a text. It said something like, "accusation accusation defensive-whine accusation so there what up now" and ended with one of my pet names for him, "Dingleberry," the definition of which is quite unflattering, if not funny.
His reply text? "You are a great wife and mother."
Sometimes the best defense is a perfectly-timed compliment.
The man ain't as dumb as he looks, folks.
(I'm evil. I know this.)
It's the hormones. It's got to be the hormones.