I Bet Even Dr. Phil Would Have to Agree that Sometimes, a Throat Punch is *Totally* Your Best Option.

Conversation between the Hubby and myself Thursday night while I'm cleaning the kitchen and he's watching me clean the kitchen.  Asshole.

Me: intently loading dishwasher and humming Glee tunes to myself.
Hubby: Staring stupidly.  Whatcha doing?
Me: Really?  It's not obvious?
Hubby:  Want me to do something?
Me:  No.
Hubby:  using his all time favorite fucking line. What do you mean, no?
Me: Staring blankly with total and complete annoyed face.  No isn't clear?
Hubby:  What do you mean?
Me:  growl and eye roll so big my eyes about don't come back down.

Hubby wanders off after catching on that my death glare isn't, in fact, a look of love and adoration.

Hubby wanders back.
Watches me clean some more.  Asshole.
Hubby: hopeful, yet pathetic tone. What can I do?
Me: martyr-like because I do every damn thing around here and that's just fine because at least that way it's done and done right. NOTHING.
Hubby: What do you mean, nothing?


We communicate like goddamn professionals.

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I am a wife, mommy, and all around productive member of society. Usually. I'm pretty much a legend in my own mind.


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