Nothing ruins my appetite more than hearing someone complain right after I spent over an hour cooking. This doesn't include the mad dash to the store, making sure not only do I get the ingredients needed but EVERYTHING else EVERYONE needs.
When I finally get to sit and breathe after EVERYONE in this house of mine is served, including the damn dogs....I want to enjoy my dinner. Complain after. I'm exhausted! It has nothing to do with PMS or whatever you may want to think it is. Everyone gets to sit around, watch TV, relax, play etc while I slave in the kitchen and clean as I go so I can get to the point of enjoying my meal.
But no.
It doesn't happen once. Doesn't happen twice. It fucking happens frequently. Does anyone else offer to help walk the fucking the dogs as they piss on the floor and carpet? NO. Everyone fucking disappears. Its not just the fucking kids' responsibility. Must be fucking nice to constantly yell and point out everyone's wrongs and not lift a damn finger.
So yea. When I'm upset, I don't wanna fucking eat. So as Mr. Mouthy wolfs down his dinner IN BED I wrap up my dinner in plastic wrap in the fucking fridge. No, no apology because he doesn't need to do shit.
Damn mouth is always running and never offers to lift a fucking finger.
I should be a skinny bitch because this ain't nothing new.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
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