Premenstrual Syndrome At Its Finest

My husband has been working really long days. So have I. And yet, even though I clean my kitchen, it never looks clean. I ran out of dishwasher liquid because he is never home at night so I can get to the store. Yesterday, I rewashed all the dishes in the dishwasher and put them in to dry, then washed all the dishes from the night before. And there were still dirty dishes.

And then we had dinner. I left the mess in the kitchen, supervised the boys because they had to leave at 6:20 p.m. for church. Then I concentrated on playing with the baby and cleaning her and putting her in her pajamas. At 7:30 p.m., she was ready for bed, but I needed to wait and let the boys in and instruct them to get ready for bed because if I did not, they would just play Nintendo until their eyeballs fell out.

At 7:55, the phone rings. It's TwinBoyA relaying some frivolous information about the movie plans for tonight. But at least I know he's at church and will be home soon. I put the baby to bed at 8 p.m. Husband returns at 8:02 p.m. and wonders where the boys are. I tell them they will be home very soon and sure enough, they come home moments later.

I say the same things over and over again. Stop playing Nintendo. Put on your pajamas. If you want a snack, it's now or never. If you want to watch television, it's time. At 8:30, you are going to bed. Stop yelling. Okay. You can play Nintendo, but you have only fourteen minutes. Stop being annoying. Okay, five minutes. While I'm saying all this, I'm at the computer, biding my time, waiting until they go to bed because I have work to do.

Earlier in the afternoon, in a fit of greed and delusion, I agreed to do a transcription job that had to be finished by morning. Al estimated it would be 24 to 32 pages. That translates to about three hours.

Then while standing in the kitchen, my husband said it.

"Well, I'm glad to see that the kitchen is a mess as usual and that the house is a wreck. Someday, dear, you'll wear make-up again and a dress and everything, right?"

I didn't hear everything, though, because at that point I jumped up, hurdled the iron railing between the family room and kitchen and decked him. Then I sat on him until he couldn't breathe, which, at my current weight, only took a few moments, and pummeled him with my dishwater hands.

Oh. Wait. Maybe I only imagined that part.

After he commented about the condition of my house--the house I haven't left for 72 stinking hours--I stood up and told the boys it was bedtime. I allowed them to finish "just one more thing." Then I picked up a few things in the family room, mouth in a tight, grim line and tried not to stomp.

My husband asked what time Shrek starts today. (He's taking YoungestBoy. And furthermore, we're letting YoungestBoy skip school to go to a movie. Boy, I wish I was my own kid.) I answered in an even voice, not making eye contact. I said, "Let me look," and went into the kitchen to check out the listing in the paper.

Now, my husband, being brighter than the average bear, says, "Hey, are you mad? If I can't joke around with you, then I just won't say anything again."

I said, choking back tears, "It's fine. I just have PMS."

Then I told him the movie times.

Then I typed.

While I was typing, I heard him in the kitchen rinsing dishes and putting them in the dishwasher. Of course, I should have told him that I have no dishwasher liquid, but I was too angry that he was doing the dishes because doing the dishes is my job and his actions commented silently to me, "YOU ARE A HORRIBLE FAILURE AS A HOUSEWIFE! WHY, OH, WHY, DIDN'T I STAY IN TEXAS WHERE WOMEN KNOW HOW TO TREAT THEIR MEN?" When he finished loading the dishwasher, he said, "Where's the dishwasher liquid?" I said, "I'm out." He said, "Well, I just loaded the dishwasher." (Which, by the way, took him at least three times longer than it takes me.) I said, "Yeah, well, I guess I'll have to rewash them by hand as I need them." Before he went upstairs, he brought me a big, cold glass of water and pretzels for a snack.

I finally finished typing at 11:35 p.m. I would have finished earlier, but my stupid word-processor gave me an error message and warned me, ever so sweetly, that I might lose the unsaved material I had. That was five pages, gone in a poof!

So.

Today, I am $68 richer and my house is still a wreck. I've just baked and eaten chocolate chip cookies, though, with the last half-bag of chocolate chips that I own. Only two hours until naptime. I'm pretty sure I can make it until then, unless, of course, someone comments on my housekeeping skills or washes dishes for me.