Stylistic Differences

Well, several of you have been kind enough to ask how the box count is coming. Its coming. Slowly, but surely, our house is being disassembled. The pace is not matching my expectations, mind you. I'm a kind of get-up-and-go-girl. My husband is not. We have "stylistic differences." I think that is the nicest way to say: You drive me absolutely fucking nuts.

Have you ever noticed that you can get away with saying just about anything if you add on the phrase: "Bless his heart," or "God love him"? Well, you can. Its a phrase that has crept into my vernacular since living in Hoosierville. For example: "Him had to go beat der dog wit' a baseball bat n' bashed his skull in after he bit my hand. I is grateful. Can't have nones that wit da baby comin', bless his heart." I wish I was exaggerating, but this is pretty much verbatim what J and I heard riding the short bus from our take out point in the Blue River back to our cars with our fellow canoe adventurers. Thank God the Lord loves all sides of the bell curve.

Yesterday morning there weren't enough "God-love-him's" to get me through without having a minor Chernobyl experience. It just doesn't work as well when you try to say, "God love him, he spent just as much time picking through the garbage looking for his to-do list as he could have spent just typing up a new one." I appreciate my Tetris man, I do. (Bless his heart) I also just want to kill him at times. Very normal feelings in a partnership and marriage, I know.

J spent time arranging space saver bags in an empty box to just see the spacial relations and then pulled them all out again. He has also spent time "supervising" my packing skills to make sure I maximize the space and am padding the layers correctly. I have told him that we would get a lot more done if he would just go do his own thing. So he did: he sorted through his sock drawer to match socks (again, not helping the packing cause) as well as sorting through papers from medical school (again, not sure if anything got thrown away) and then decided it was too anxiety producing so he surfed the internet to look up the latest J porn obsession: the iPhone. I realized I needed to leave the house. It was either that or say many attacking things that I would regret. The whole time I'm storming away he kept saying things like, "You are so adorable when you are mad." And, "We should talk about this." Fucking no! No more talking! Action! Do Something!! That was all I had running through my brain.

I vented to friends, got lunch, and went to the mall to feel like a normal being. About 2 hours later I got a trepidatious call from my husband.

"Honey, are you feeling better? When are you coming home? Bubba dog and I will be here and we would love to see you. I fixed the money problem, so you don't need to worry about that any more. Have you had anything to eat? I love you."

Really, how can you stay angry at this? You can't. Bless my heart.