I picked up Husband from work today, only to have him launch into his Blance Dubois rant.
Not that he can only depend upon the kindness of strangers, but that he has the worst problems in the world, and swears as God as his witness, he will never run a 10K again.
This is then followed by inceasant bitching about how he's sore and chafed.
Don't get me wrong, I bitch all the time. I complain about how cold I am, how my tits hurt, how the neighbors are probably serial killers so I can't go outside when I'm at home alone and they're outside with that creepy blue truck, and of course, how I wish I could work instead of waiting on my citizenship papers. But this is all crap that I want to bitch about to bitch. He moans and whines because I'm here and he now has someone to whine to.
So I made the attempt to make things better. I tried to soothe him with promises of a good dinner and time on the couch, the beloved perch of our living room for the enviable position it bears to the television and how it's not the chair in front of the freezing cold picture window. I offered to go get him Gold Bond and Ben Gay.
Husband: "Oh no, let's just go inside."
Husband: "Oh, I can just use one of our many sexual lubricants and a rabid porcupine so that I can bitch mightily at you about it later."
Okay, so he didn't say that last part, it was for dramatic effect, but I have a habit of putting words into his mouth anyway. So we get home and I dick around in the living room, trying not to look callous over his suffering though I couldn't care less. I really couldn't. Because he's in the army and he knows that means he has to run. And I feel neglected for Fallout: New Vegas.
So I pick up the laptop and go into the Dining Room of Solitude and shut the door. After about an hour of being in the Dining Room of Solitude, I decided I wanted a snack of Pepsi Max (aka black tar heroin in liquid form) and crackers. I sashayed into the kitchen, procured said liquid drugs and crackers, and decided I wanted some left over Halloween candy as well.
After an irrational moment of anger over the fact that Husband has eaten all of the Coffee Crisp, I pick out a few pieces and realize I cannot hold my glass of liquid heroin, my crackers, and my candy all at once. So I do the only sensible thing. I put the candy in my cleavage and head back to the Dining Room of Solitude. As I walk past the couch that he has commandeered in nothing but his green army shorts, he puts out a hand to fondle some part of my body as Husband is apt to do as a show of affection.
I stop, and one by one, my pieces of candy come dropping out of the bottom of my peasant blouse onto his head. He glanced up, looked at the candy, then at me, and of course, this ensues:
Husband: Mina, what the fuck was that?
Me: Well, I didn't have any more hands to carry the candy. If you'd let me graft on a third hand, this wouldn't happen.
Husband: If I have a hard time with pinata boobs, you'd think you wouldn't ask about a third hand.
Me: ....I want the third hand and I'll take it from the neighbors if I have to.
Then I skittered back to the dining room to leave that stewing in his brain. Something tells me the neighbors are all going to get calls tomorrow warning them to keep an eye on their limbs.
Now every time he gets close, he shakes my rack to see if candy comes out.