I wanna be the kind of wife that…

Whatever that title I just typed is referring to, I promise you, I’m not it. And as the days go by, I think I’m beginning to become the wife I promised myself I’d never be. (see: nagging.miserable.irrational.bitch)

Take last night for instance. Me and my Mr. H are riding home in the car and I counted at least four times where I blatantly picked a fight just to, I don’t know, 1. be wicked annoying or 2. exert some sort of power I think I have that I’m continuously trying to abuse.

Topics of said spats?

1. What I wanted for dinner. (which is no surprise because I start asking what we’re going to have for dinner over morning coffee.) We had reubens, which is what I wanted in the first place. It was the type of french fries I wanted to battle over. (sweet v. crinkle v. spicy) Fatgirlsydromemuch?

2. How no one was going to make me pack after dinner. (there are only two of us living together)

3. Why he didn’t send out the pre-drafted email to his family. (and yes, holy fuck I am pre-drafting family emails which is enough to make me want to toss myself into an intersection)

4. He was singing the Oscar Myer bologna song just to irritate me because he knows I.HATE.THAT.SHIT.

And then, when the bickering isn’t good enough, I shout, “I have had just about enough fighting with you for today and I don’t appreciate you fighting with me in closed environment.” (the Prius) That is how I blame all of the day’s fighting on him–table-turning at its best.

He says, ever so patiently, “I think that whole bc issue thing is making you go crazy. Do you want to wrestle when we get home?”

If wrestle is the publicly acceptable substitute for stab, then fine.

But then it happens again, not an hour later. He’s making dinner and I am loading the rest of the previous night’s dishes into the half-filled dishwasher and my blood pressure starts to rise and mid-huff I realize I’m

huffing and all I can think is,

WHY IN THE LIVING FUCK DOES HE NOT KNOW HOW TO LOAD A DISHWASHER????? Everything has to come out and I have to do it my way and I’m tossing things around and acting like any old mental patient while he’s over at the stove whistling some song about nothing and then I realize.

I’m slowly (not that slowly) turning into a nutjob wife that cares about shit like what order to arrange the glasses in the dishwasher and the right way to fold towels and I’VE STARTED TO PUT DOWN COASTERS AT DINNER. My god, WHO.AM.I???

I really need to get back to the basics. The girlfriend basics. Takeout for dinner, saying “Oh, it’s ok or no, really, I don’t care!” and really mean it, less eye rolling and frequent, unsolicited blowjobs.

I will not let the shackles of wifeyhood win.