Fuck. Seriously, just fuck.
*warning, if you’re squeemish just skip this…
Dogs both got sick tonight. Otis shit all over the basement earlier, you threw an epic tantrum cleaning it up and threw a bigger fit when I came to help. I finally head to bed rather than deal with you being an asshole to me over the dog being sick and my trying to be genuinely helpful. Tried to make the best of it, nevermind. Then Cida pukes all over our bedroom floor just now and you grudgingly “deal with” that. My eyes start burning, I think it is pretty late for the pine sol I used earlier to start bugging me but whatever. I get up to make a sandwich, and stop in the kidlet’s room just out of habit to check in on her… Cida had puked all over the brand new hardwood floor there before making it to our room apparently. And I mean ALL OVER. You pretend to be asleep while I clean it up. Then I find the pine sol out with the lid off. You aren’t an ignorant person. But you won’t read directions. I realize the pine sol gag reflex is because you’ve used concentrated cleaner to wipe the unfinished, porous floor at the foot of our bed after sopping up the Cida mess. Concentrated cleaner. No water. Explains why it is strong enough to strip the lining of my fucking throat. Not that there is much of that left after this evening of gaging and dry heaving over dog sickness. Come to find out it is all because we ran out of dog food and you didn’t say anything and you didn’t stop for more, so you’ve been feeding the dogs milkbones for two days. Two. Days. You’re leaving your job to be a stay at home dad within the next three weeks. You are not inspiring ANY measure of confidence right now in your ability to run our household, Suzie Homemaker.
Fuck. Just. Fuck.
