Monday, 09/01/2008 - 11:27 p.m.
Having to be the grown-up, for the most part, is OK by me. DC and I decided long before we got married that one of us was the mature one and it wasn't him. So I knew going into this what being married to him entailed. Today really tried that "Til death do you part" thing because he was closer to death than he thought.
He cleaned out his bedroom closet to make room for his dresser to make more room in his actual room. OK fine. All the boxes from his closet moved into the living room, where they sat for a few weeks. He rearranged his room how he wanted and it does look and seem a lot bigger, and the boxes still sat. Before I left for Podunk this weekend he assured me that he was going to "clean" and sort all those boxes of crap and decide what went where. I get home last night and sure enough, he's "cleaned" but didn't touch one of those fuckin' boxes. We have a new shiny shower curtain, tub mat, and the tub room is all sparkly, all his laundry is done, and the dishes are done but those goddamn boxes haven't moved. Alright. He assures me last night before bed that he's getting up "early" specifically to do those boxes and he'll just shut my door if I'm still asleep. OK fine. I get up to a shut door (with a cat trapped in with me) of a stuffy room and the living room is *still* full of boxes. And DC? Why, he's in his room, whacking off and fooling around. His excuse was "It's hard to clean when you're not here but it's much harder to when you're here". WTF? So now I'm screaming like a madwoman, because he's been up at least 2 hours and done nothing that he said he would do but he can find time to jerk off. His follow-up excuse was "I didn't want to wake you up or bother you" by starting on the boxes. I heard my mother's words coming out of my mouth, telling him to get his ass in the living room and do what he said he'd do and clean up his fucking mess. I swear I channeled my mom from when I was a teenager and she would tell me to clean up my room. I had to stand there and *watch* him for 10 minutes, tapping my foot, for him to get started. Holy crap. Then he stops in the middle of a box to clean the cat box for no good reason. I screamed loudly with much "F" word emphasis that the litter box would wait and was not a priority. And now he's mad about my being mad, which prompted some more screaming from me about how I have to be the asshole to *make* him do what he swore up and down he was going to do. That's why he did all the piddly stuff while I was gone - so he could honestly say he "cleaned" and was busy but didn't have to sort those boxes. I ate breakfast and scrubbed the bathroom floor while he was doing the boxes, just to get the hell away from him before I said some shit I was going to regret later. We didn't speak to each other for several hours afterwards and I rather liked it. It didn't even take a whole hour to sort the boxes, make a donation pile and a storage pile, and then deliver said piles to the right places. All that screaming for about 50 minutes of work. ARGH. I now understand my ex-husband's point of view on some things I used to do that pissed him off. The apartment looks great, tho, so the screaming was probably worth it. I still have to tackle my bedroom and make it look presentable. And mop the kitchen floor.
On the calm front, the Boy and I had a pretty good weekend. We played trivia at BWW and watched some drunk fratboys fail horribly at RockBand. Yes, you read that correctly. BWW hosts RockBand tournaments open to anyone on Wednesday nights but have the stuff set up so you can practice anytime. These dudes weren't even trying and I wanted to go smoke them sooooooo bad. After the 3rd time they tanked "Vasoline" I was ready to sing, even if my hands shook at the idea of doing it in front of people. The couple behind us got into a pushy-shovey right as we were done eating and playing trivia, though, so we just left. We played RockBand when we got home and I'll be damned if I didn't sing some of the best stuff I've ever done. I don't sound like a cat being pulled over a cheese grater anymore. Hee.
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