My husband discovered that I have a Shit List. An actual sheet of paper that says “Shit List” at the top, with people’s names written on it.
Robbie: (Uncontrollable laughter)
Robbie: “You actually have a ‘Shit List?'”
Robbie: “It’s pretty short.”
Me: “It could get longer … if you want.”
Having kids seems to have given me brain rot. I have to write EVERYTHING down — even the people who have wronged me, because my memory can’t be relied upon. I can remember which kid needs which dosage of cough syrup and who wore what pair of underwear two days in a row, but I can’t recall which bitch totally screwed me over.
Not only do I write down the name of the transgressor, but I also note a few details that will jog my memory about what they did to piss me off. Because if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s not making the same mistakes twice.