We've been going to bed a little late over the past week and I have not been enjoying that in the least. Thankfully, it hasn't been affecting our wake-up routine but it's not surprising that we wake up feeling extra tired and exhausted rather than feeling well rested every morning. So the same thing happened last night, and
we I woke up extra grumpy because The Husband was still fast asleep. He didn't even hear the alarm go off and that's never a good sign. In fact, that's a sign that I'm going to need a Loader or a Bulldozer to carry him to the shower and stick him under some cold water till he wakes up. It happens very rarely, but when it does, shit hits the fan.
So I decided to set aside all the inevitable drama for some time, and did my usual thing of sleep-walking into the kitchen. I started up the toaster, set up my pan, took out some eggs and grabbed that packet of bacon which was going to transport me into some very troubled adolescent years. I know you won't immediately take me seriously when I tell you that I tried everything in my capacity to open that packet of bacon because I'm known to exaggerate. A lot. But I swear to God, that packet was delivered to me as a punishment for all my past sins. The time I spent trying to open it while my pan was heating up was even more stressful that my 12 grade Chemistry Board exam. I had NO CLUE how to salvage the situation and failure seemed to be looming in all corners. You might be wondering why I didn't just use a pair of scissors to open it. Clearly, you have never met my mother who imparted a certain compulsive disorder to me because of which things have to be done in a very specific way in my house or things are just not right. That packet had to be opened the way I wanted it to be opened or I would never be able to store it the way I wanted it to be stored. If that didn't make any sense to you, then you and I can never be friends.
So when I failed miserably at opening that packet, I decided to give up and ask for help. Except my "help" was in one of those modes where only dramatic Indian soap opera slapping or a sudden burst of icy cold water could wake him up and render him useful. I should have taken a video of how he half-sat-up/half-snoozed while trying to open that packet of bacon. Except he was just scratching the surface of the pack as if it had an itch and he was trying to ease it back to sleep. When it stopped being funny or rather, when I remembered that I had a pan on the stove, I screamed his name out. It turns out that you should never scream out the name of a half-asleep zombie, especially when it has a packet of bacon to use as a weapon against you. Thankfully, he didn't hurl it right at me. He just seriously messed up the cover out of frustration and threw it away from him.
Now there was absolutely no way to open it the way I wanted to. I had to use scissors. And those scissors cut straight through the fabric of my being and scarred me for life. I was so pissed off with The Husband for a) being in zombie mode and b) making me use the scissors, that I decided that I didn't want to talk to him for a whole day. So I set up our breakfast on the table and started without him, eyes glued to my laptop. Somewhere around the time when I was making the breakfast, he got into the shower. So by the time I started eating, he joined me at the table. Mind you, I was completely ignoring him (because he is DEAD to me when I get mad at him) when this conversation happened.
"Where's the love, womaaan?"
"Why are you not talking to me, womaaan?"
"Are you tying to do that thing where you ignore me because you just cannot calm your tits about something I did?"
"Then why are you trying so hard to fight back that smile?"
"Aah there's that smile! Give it to me."
"Fuck you, Shane! Can't you just let me ignore you in peace? FOR ONCE?"
"No. Because it's my job to make you smile."
"Well, I don't want to smile right now so you can stop trying. Also, you should know that as punishment for your actions, I didn't pour you any juice. You'll have to go get it yourself."
"Ooooh, so scary! No juice for me. That's okay, I'll just have your juice."
And before I could stop him, he gulped down ALL of my juice and because I'm no benevolent Saint, I completely lost my shit this time.
"HOW DARE YOU? YOU NEED TO GET UP AND BRING ME SOME JUICE."
*In German accent* - "But Herr Hitler, we have no more Jews. You gassed them all, remember? "
"This is not FUNNY, Shane. Bring me my juice!"
*More German accent* - "But why you gas them all, Herr Hitler? That's why you can't have more Jews!"
That went on for a while until I struggled to keep a straight face and finally gave in to laughter. I guess he's pretty good at his job. That ASSHOLE!