No Whining Today.

After yesterday’s rant, I feel the need to tell everyone that I now feel cleansed and can move on with my life. I’m done talking about the Angry Blue Monster. For now.

I was mad at Husband for acting like an asshole to me on Thursday and so I told him yesterday that he better not come home without flowers. 

He came home without flowers. 

He put on his LSU pajama pants and laid down on the couch to check his email. I casually asked him where my flowers were. He just as casually asked where my vase was. I said, “I know you forgot and you won’t win this argument. I want and deserve some freakin’ flowers. TODAY.” And you know, I have to give the man credit. He got up, got dressed again, and left to get them. At 9:00 p.m. And he did it cheerfully.

They’re beautiful.

I don’t claim to have a perfect marriage. It is flawed and wraught with problems, just like everyone else’s. But I have to say, learning how to ask for what I need has really helped us communicate better. I don’t have time to stew in silence and wait for him to ask what is wrong. He may not even notice I’m stewing. He might just think to himself, “Wow, it’s sure quiet around here. I like it.” I am not patient enough to wait for him to figure out what I’m thinking … also, he will never, ever guess correctly, so it’s pretty much a waste of our time. 

It’s unfair to expect the men in our lives to notice we’re upset if we can’t open our mouths and say I’M MAD AT YOU. Men are just different. They don’t notice certain things. Maybe by the time we’re retired, we’ll have learned how to correctly guess what the other one is thinking. But for now, we’re forced to talk it out.

After a stressful week, I decided to spend the weekend trying to relax. This means that there are 4 loads of clean laundry piled in my bedroom that I’m actively refusing to stress over. We’re playing outside and I’m going to make peach cobbler. The fact of the matter is, my vagina hurts but otherwise my life is good and I need to enjoy it. There will be no whining today.

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