What. The. Fuck.
That’s what I have to say about this afternoon.
My husband came home for lunch today and flopped on the couch…Piper was upstairs playing so I asked if he wanted to get freaky (I’m trying to get preggers, and hubby never wants to do it at night cause he’s “tired”). He says no, he’s not in the mood. Well fuck. Guess it doesn’t matter that I am.
Then, he asks me what’s for lunch, and when I offer the meatballs I made yesterday (for meatball sandwiches), he wrinkles his nose in disgust. I swear I married a four year old.
I don’t even know why it bothered me that much. I really just wanted to find some new, easy, cheap recipes that he would like, and honestly thought he would like the meatball sandwiches. He has the tastebuds of a child and won’t eat anything even remotely resembling vegetebles, fruit, or white sauce.
So anyway, we proceeded to get in an all out scream-fest (instead of the all out fuck-fest I originally desired) about a fucking meatball sandwich.
What the hell is wrong with me? Why can’t I just accept the fact that my husband is the pickiest man alive and love him because of it? Why can’t I just say, “You know, Soph, I know you were trying to come up with a new dinner for the family, but fuck it, Brandon doesn’t like it. Try something else next week.” I’d like to say it’s a big deal, and that I was completely justified in my flip-out, but I know I wasn’t. I know I was wrong.
I have a great husband, and I keep fucking our marriage up with my never-ceasing bitchiness.
