A tale of cake and irritability…

This is what happened in my house last night…

J: Will you make me a chocolate cake?
S: Seriously?
J: Yes, seriously.
S: You seriously want me to go into the kitchen and bake you a delicious chocolate cake that I cannot eat just 5 days into my diet?  Really?
J: Yes.
S: Could you be any less supportive?
J: So I’m not supposed to eat cake for the entire time you are on a diet?
S: You can eat all the cake you want…I’m just not going to make it for you.
J: Fine…I’ll make it myself.
S: Fine.

J went into the kitchen and started banging around.  He knows full well that I’m a complete control freak and there was no way I was letting him make a cake unsupervised.  I went into the kitchen.

S: Get out of the way…I’ll do that. (I angrily add ingredients to the bowl.)
J: They said you’d be like this.
S: Who said I’d be like what exactly?
J: Jenny Craig.  I went to the website…to the section for spouses…and they said to expect you to be cranky and irrational and irritable. 
S: (Cracking eggs with enough force to break a piece of wood)…First of all…bite me.  Second of all…there is no section like that.  And lastly, I’m not cranky and irrational and irritable.  There is nothing irrational about not wanting to bake a cake that I cannot eat. 
J: (Stroking my hair)…sure honey.
S: Stop touching me.

J was quiet for a few minutes and I realized it was because he was fixing a plate of leftovers for himself. 

S: What are you doing?
J: Getting my dinner.
S: You are seriously going to make yourself a plate and go into the other room to eat it while I stand here…starving because I haven’t eaten yet…and make you a cake?  SERIOUSLY?
J: Um…no?
S: You’re damn right, no.
J: But you aren’t letting me help.  I’m just standing here.
S: Haven’t we been over this?  I am making a cake for YOU.  A cake that I cannot eat.  It is all for you.  Therefore, you are to stand here and gaze at me lovingly, while staying out of my way, until I tell you that you can go into the other room.
J: But I’m hungry.
S: I will stab you with this fork if you even think of taking that plate into the other room.
J: Fine…(starts stroking my hair again.)
S: Stop touching me.

The cake went into the oven and I started making my own dinner.  J took his plate into the other room with strict orders to wait for me to eat.  He didn’t, of course, so I refused to speak to him.  He was done eating and I was halfway through my dinner when the timer for the cake went off. 

J: Are you going to get on that?
S: Do you have some kind of death wish tonight?
J: Well I just thought you’d like to see the job through to completion.
S: I really don’t care.  Go get your own damn cake.

Of course, he was right and the control freak in me sent me following him into the kitchen to make sure the cake was done.  Later on, I heard him take the cake out of the pan and put it on a plate.  When I went into the kitchen the cake plate was covered with a dish towel.

S: What’s up with the dish towel?
J: Camouflage…so you aren’t tempted.
S: (In my sweetest voice ever)…Wow…what a great idea…it’s almost like there’s no cake there at all!  What cake?  I completely forgot that I just baked a cake.
J: Your sarcasm is not appreciated.
S: Get over it.
J: Would you consider running to the store to get me milk?
S: (Shooting daggers from my eyes)…you’ve got to be kidding me…
J: It’s ok…don’t worry…I can just have soda with my cake.
S: I’m sure you’ll survive.
J: (Stroking my hair again)…you’re so pretty.
S: Shut up…and stop touching me.

So I guess I was being a little cranky and irritable.  Though I still maintain that my position was completely rational.  Who wants to bake a cake they can’t eat?  And who wouldn’t be irritable microwaving diet mac and cheese, while their boyfriend was in the other room stuffing his face with delicious brisket that they made? 

I have a feeling I’ll be a lot less irritable after I step on the scale tomorrow and see that this whole diet thing is actually working.  At least…I hope I will.

It was so not my fault…

We have this thing…this pipe thing…that sticks up out of the driveway.  J says it’s an access pipe for the water shutoff valve…or something.  All I know is that it’s a complete nuisance.  We’ve tried to bury it, but no matter what we do, the thing will not stay buried.  And, of course, the edge is sharp and pointed.  And, of course, I drive over the damn thing all the time.  Sometimes I even manage to park the car with the back tire right on top of the sharp little point.  This drives J crazy and he’s constantly bitching that I’m going to cause a flat tire.   I always tell him he’s exaggerating and the car will be fine. 

On Saturday, J and I decided to go out and do some shopping.  We pulled out of the driveway and got to the end of the street and a neighbor stopped us to tell us we had a flat tire.  The back tire…the one that’s always parked on the sharp little point.  Of course. 

Luckily, we were not far from home so J drove back down, pulled into the driveway and went about taking the tire off the car.  The whole time he’ was blaming me, telling me this is all my fault for constantly driving over the point.  I tried to ignore him because I was confident that this incident had nothing at all to do with me, but he was being really annoying and we ended up arguing.

J got the tired changed, threw the flat tire into the trunk and we headed off to Costco to have them fix the tire.  When we arrived at Costco, we found that our spare was almost flat and in serious need of air.  The guys took the car inside and one filled up the spare while the other went to work on the flat tire to find the hole and plug it.  Ten minutes later, one guy came inside to where we were waiting and told us that they couldn’t find a single air leak in the tire and maybe someone was messing with us by letting the air out of our tire. 

Now, our neighbors are annoying, but they aren’t that bad.  No, we said, something was wrong with the tire, please keep looking.  So they did. 

Another ten minutes passed and the manager came in holding the tire.  He put it on the floor and pointed out a very fine line on the inside of the tire.  It was a perfect, clean line that went around the whole tire.  It looked like someone had cut it with a razor blade, but it was a perfect circle and right in the middle of the sidewall of the tire.  The manager explained to us that the tire rubber was drying out and cracking and there was a teeny hole along the line that leaked all the air.  He said the problem was caused by a manufacturer’s defect and that we were lucky it went flat the way it did instead of blowing out while we were driving on the highway.  He then went in the back to replace the tire with a new one. 

I turned to J with a smug smile on my face and demanded an apology.  For what, he said.  For blaming me for the flat tire, I replied.  He swore up, down and sideways that he never said it was my fault the tire went flat.  He still maintains that position.    I swear, he’s completely delusional…and a total pain in the ass.