Amazing

I know that I drive my husband crazy.

He absolutely hates when I leave cleaning rags in the kitchen sink, and they begin to smell musty and moldy.  I theorize that he can take them to the laundry just as easily as I can.

He loathes when I break an egg to use for cooking and then I toss the shell into the sink to dispose of later.  Except, in his defense, I often get distracted and then my later becomes his later when he is scrubbing the kitchen as part of his nightly routine.  In his estimation, I should stop my cooking groove, walk over to the other side of the kitchen with the shell and toss it into the garbage can.  (Ridiculous!  No one should interrupt a cooking groove.  It happens too infrequently.) We have compromised on a garbage bowl that I use when I am cooking, but he still thinks that is gross to clean up too!

He abhors when I leave the caps to containers only half way sealed.  There have been many times where I hear, "AAAAAAAANNNIE!!" only to walk in and find that he has dumped an entire bottle of garlic salt on his entree, because I have failed to close the lid.  We have even had mini lessons where Paul demonstrates sarcastically how to close a lid completely, and I stand there trying to be a good pupil and keep a straight face.  This is not an easy thing to do, because in this situation, I have little sympathy.  I think that he should check the lid and bottle before he shakes.  Kind of like women are supposed to check that the toilet seat is down before they sit.  Toe -may- toe,  toe- mah- toe, I say.

Another one he can't stand is when the baby is dirty.  That one he can't win.  Because frankly, I don't like a messy baby either, but, with El I can only do my best.  She is a dirt magnet, and no matter how many wipes I employ, the only real time that she is clean and smelling good is after a bath.  That lasts, oh, maybe five minutes until she discovers her next marker or muddy shoe or . . . whatever.

I also get on his last nerve when I tie off the full garbage bag, but I leave it in the can.  This stems from the simple fact that I don't do garbage.  Now, I readily admit that this makes absolutely no sense.  Garbage should be taken out to the can when it is full.  I also admit that it is not fair.  He is the one and only garbage man at our house.  There is just something about garbage that creeps me out.  Always has.  Always will.  And, I will not do it.  Complain. Cry. Sue me.  Whatever.  I will not take the garbage out, Sam I am.  (In my defense, I do take complete responsibility of the toilet duties which is an equally gross task.  Except for the downstairs toilet.  That one is Paul's.  O.K. so maybe not complete responsibility, just semi-complete.)

I probably make him want to pull his hair out when I use his laptop, without the power cord, consequently sucking the battery dry for his own use.

If that is not enough, I know he cringes when he sees the state of my van, aka the living room on wheels. His car is sparkly clean, and except for the faint aroma emanating from his golf shoes, his car smells good.  My van, and let's be real here, should probably be condemned.  There are petrified french fries, congealed ketchup, stepped on school work, used tissues, and various pieces of clothing just to name a few stray items.  There are stickers on the windows, crayons on (and in) the seat, and probably 10 dollars worth of change under the floor mats.  I even think it is gross, but at this stage in my life, my van is my survival, so I just try to let the mess go and not worry.  Some day my red convertible will be sparkly and clean, and I will be smoking hot behind the wheel.

Yes, I probably drive Paul crazy on a daily basis.

Yet, he still tells me everyday that he loves me.

Amazing . . . isn't it?