Yesterday, I told my husband that I hated him.
My exact words were as follows. “You know, I love you, but when we paint? I hate you.”
It sounds so horrible and harsh, but you’ve never painted with my husband.
Ever since he got his bonus, we’ve “discussed” what we should do with the money. When you give Perpetually Broke people a check for $1,500, it’s as if you’ve handed them a check for one million dollars and the possibilities seem endless.
“We could take a cruise! Or buy furniture! Or go out for a nice meal at Chilis! AWESOME BLOSSOM, EXTRA AWESOME! Or! Or! Or! We could blow it all on a crazy weekend of bowling, Fuddruckers, smoothies!”
After much conversation and fantasizing about what to do with our WAD OF CASH, we decided it was time to give our teenage son his own bedroom, so we headed to IKEA with the intention of buying him a new bed and dresser.
Surprisingly, the trip to IKEA went smoothly and we agreed on a bed, dresser and a few accessories without a single argument or Flipping of The Fingah. The next day, I picked out a comforter and the color of paint. (Yes, he lets me make the important decisions, but trust me, it’s only so that if they turn out to be bad decisions, he can turn to me, point and say “HEY, YOU’RE THE ONE WHO PICKED IT OUT!”)
I wanted to do a dark gray, PigHunter wanted to do a dark blue. I compromised and got a dark gray/blue paint that we both ended up loving. (See? I am The Great Uniter! The Compromiser Extraodinaire!)
Five minutes after we began to “prep the room” the HATRED began. You see, my husband is a good man. A good man whom I love deeply, but anytime we do a project together that involves paint, nuts, bolts and /or power tools, he becomes this passive aggressive know it all jerk who uses every chance he gets to remind me that I DO NOT KNOW MORE THAN HE DOES ABOUT SUCH THINGS.
When I am right about something, he’ll flat out refuse to acknowledge that I was right and will say stupid things like “I’m NOT going to argue with you about this. If you want to argue, that’s your problem, but I refuse to argue about this any longer.”
To which I respond with something a little or EXACTLY like this “ASS!!!”
I’ll admit that the things we argue about are STUPID and that the things which I want him to give me credit for are ridiculous. Example.
Me: “I DID stir the paint, I’ve BEEN stirring it for 10 minutes. I am not stupid! Why would you assume that I DIDN’T STIR THE PAINT? I DEMAND THAT YOU TAKE IT BACK AND ACKNOWLEDGE THAT I STIRRED THE PAINT!”
Him: “I refuse to argue about this.”
Me: “I’m not arguing! You accused me of not stirring the paint and I TOTALLY stirred the paint! YOU BETTAH RECOGNIZE!”
Him: (rolling his eyes, because, you know, I’m so immature and he’s SO above arguing.) “I told you, I’m not going to argue, woman.”
It’s that attitude that makes me HATE HIM when we paint together.
Don’t hate… just shut your mouth and PAINT.
How can I say that about the man that I love? Seriously, I LOVE HIM. And awwww, look at us, how cute we are together, all in love and stuff.
But that is because we hadn’t attempted to paint anything together that day.
When we paint together, it looks a little more like this…
I’m not placing all of the blame on him. I’m no joy to work with either. I have a chip on my shoulder (I’m not stupid! I know how to paint! I may not have a college degree, but I know that I need to stir the damn paint!) and I overreact to pretty much EVERYTHING. As much of a jerk as he can be when we do project together, I actually feel sorry for him, because I truly am psychotic in the “home improvement” environment.
Day One wasn’t too bad. We had a few arguments, but overall, we got through it without too much emotional damage.
But Day Two. OMG. DAY TWO.
I thought we should start the day off with a little fun, so we went bowling. Then, Tony decided that we should go to “Fuddruckers” for lunch, because we had never been there and because he “always leaves Rubios feeling hungry.” (Because, Rubios was MY suggestion for lunch.)
We ordered our food and IMAGINE MY HORROR when the lady was all “Ok, that will be FORTY DOLLARS.”
Forty dollars? FOR BURGERS?
Oh hell naw.
I know, I shouldn’t care! We are rich! HE GOT A BONUS! But, that’s insane to me. BURGERS SHOULDN’T COST $40!!!
When she told me the total, my head whipped around, I looked at my son and son “OH MY GOD, I AM SO PISSED. Go tell your dad that I am pissed.”
The woman at the register was like “OH-KAY, psychotic mother in the house!”
When I first got to the table, Tony was all “HAHAH you’re pissed!” But 5 minutes after hearing me bitch and moan, he was all “Take it outside, woman. Chill out, for reals. Yeah, that was a lot for burgers, but it’s not the end of the world.”
Do I need to tell you that the rest of the day kinda sucked? And that when we finally got home and busted open the paint, that ALL HELL BROKE LOOSE?
He was mad. I was mad. The kids were like GROW UP Y’ALL. (Which, (YOU GROW UP, CHILDREN OF MINE. GROW UP AND BUY YOUR OWN DAMN FURNITURE ALREADY.)
At one point, he started “bossing me around.” (See! I AM grown!) and commanded me to start taking the clothes out of what is now Ethan’s room and hanging them in Andrew’s closet. I gave him an attitude at first (“I’ll hang them up after you are done, WHY I GOTTA DO IT NOW?”) but I finally agreed to meet his demand and went to start taking the clothes out of the room.
As I picked up a pile of shirts, I heard a huge CRASH and looked up to see the TV, that Tony had carelessly placed on top of a pile of clothes, had flipped over and hit the wall, putting a giant hole in the wall.
He flipped the hell out and blamed me.
Me! Who was just doing what he had asked and had done nothing wrong whatsoever! It wasn’t my fault that he put the TV in an UNSTABLE place.
Yelling, fingerpointing and blame ensued until I finally snapped and said “You either admit that you were wrong for putting the tv there and that this was NOT my fault, or… I’M LEAVING! FOR THE REST OF THE DAY!”
“HA! Where are you going to go?”
“I’ll go somewhere! (SNAPS) now, say it wasn’t my fault!”
“I don’t have time for this nonsense!”
I lost my shit. I threw the clothes that were in my hand up in the air whilst shouting “OMG. I’M OUTTA HERE!!!”
(A little advice. If you ever decide to go all dramaqueen and declare that you are leaving, make SURE that you don’t have to pee before saying it, because, man, having to come back home after only 7 minutes so that you don’t piss your pants is pretty damn embarrassing , even after you give your “I’m only back because I love my son and want to get his room finished” speech, you end up looking like a pathetic loser.)
The good news is that we FINISHED. The room is painted, the furniture assembled and my son has his own room.
The bad news? We’re painting Ethan’s room next weekend and blame for the hole in the wall has yet to be claimed.
Yesterday, I told my husband that I hated him.