Sex and Love 100

Musings on the most basic life skill . . .

Tuesday, November 19, 2013

The Fine Line Between Love and Hate

I really hate my husband today. HATE! It’s OKAY to use that word, I’m a psychologist, and I gave you permission. Since we got the puppy I have learned a lot more about Mr. Perfect—and myself. How could I miss these qualities?
            “Honey,” I begged, “since I sprained my ankle on the log you threw under the bunch of leaves you had to rake in a pile across the path, could you walk the dog?”
            He grabs a sweatshirt (so I know this isn’t going to be a long trek), then discards the leash. Princess, he claims, knows he’s the alpha male.
            Five minutes later I ask, “Did she poop and pee?”
            “I don’t know, I was raking, and cutting shrubs.”
            “Shrubs, cutting? I ask the man who doesn’t know a tulip from a rose.
            “I found a clipper.”
            That thought is ambushed when Princess begins to sniff the new wool rug in the dining room. Princess is now 12 weeks weighs 43 pounds. I find out in the next minute her poop weighs half of that. One ruined cake spatula later, a roll of paper towels (Bounty), I see her squat again.
            I scream so loud even David’s rectum seizes two stories up.
            What to put on? Princess has thankfully left me with one of every shoe; a boot and rubber clog (which worked with my ace-bandaged foot), David’s sweat shirt; my fifty dollar silk scarf (for only $19.00 at Marshalls) and I run outside.
            Princess unloads. She makes a prefect Dairy Queen size softie on David’s sacred lawn. Yes, he designated the “lawn” as sacred. We have 4 acres of grass. Oh well, we couldn’t make it to the hinterlands, I thought. “Rotten me,” I tell princess.   
            She appeared to know exactly what I’m thinking. She looks quite charming with my scarf run through the collar. And I smile, long enough to crook my head down to her and glimpse the climbing roses that should have been behind her head.
            A nub. They are nothing but a nub. Twenty years and my roses look like that discount plastic sack they sell for $5.99-take-your-chances at the discount department store. The ends of the branches were ripped and torn as if they were sawed off.  
            I yank my silk scarf and march upstairs to his library (the bathroom).
            “What the F-U-C-K is wrong with you? Yeah I spell it. But that’s another story.
            As I yelled out my complaint, as he told me his story—fining the new clippers—a You Tube video on pruning—my hand found the weighty object in his sweatshirt pocket.
            I pull out my brand new ergonomic orange handled fifty-dollar Frisker Sewing Scissors.
            “Dawn, you know, they really took you on those things.”
             "Sweetheart, you're not blogging that story, are you? You know I'll go right up to that store and buy you another one of those things." 

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