I must vent.

I love my husband. Pretty much the reason I'm still married, right? Some say “what’s love got to do with it,” but what the hell, it works for me.

That said.

I have to vent. Nag. Whatever. If I don’t do it here, I’ll go bananas on him and, well, that’s not good for anyone.

My list of complaints:

The DVR. Or "your obsession with the list of shows recorded." We have 3 DVR boxes in the house. Living room, Manland and The Bedroom. The Living room is full of my trash t.v. and kid's shows. Manland is Mr. Kiss' (a.k.a. sports & porn). The Bedroom, well, it's a mix. Movies, The Family Guy (barf) and 20/20, 48 hours, Dateline...haphazard. Well, here’s the thing, Husband-o-mine, if it's on The List, then someone recorded it. Obviously. So why do you keep asking me if I still want it or can you delete it? Did I record it? Why haven't I watched last week's Intervention yet? There's plenty of space and just fucking move on.

Oblivion. Are men born with this “oblivion” chromosome? Can someone 'splain this to me? So at home, we have our lists. For the most part, he mows the lawn, cleans the pool and takes out the trash. I do the laundry [fucking hate laundry], the dishes and grocery shopping. But we vary from the lists once in a while. We both work, shit still needs to get done. I've mowed the lawn and he's gone to the grocery store. But the oblivion of "when" something needs to be done? i.e. cleaning the FUCKING TOILET WHEN IT'S CLEARLY GROWING THINGS? Or forgetting to vacuum when I'll be away, even though I've put the Dyson at the bottom of the steps. For 2 days. Or emptying the trash and not putting a bag back in and then I go and toss my coffee grounds in the trash and hear “splat” and realize much too late that I just made a big fucking mess because there’s no fucking bag.

My car. He got it for me. For ME. But JaysusChristo, if there's a matchbox or reusable bag or napkin on the front seat, what's the big deal. My car is clean. It's not smelling like an 8th grade boy's locker room. There are not spilled sippy cups of milk hanging around under seats. I don't leave "trash" in the car for more than a day. So when you get in and Huff and Sigh and Grab shit up, it pisses me off. Just deal with a napkin here & there, asshole.

Huffing and Sighing. Soooo passive aggressive and that, coupled with “you’ll be fine” make me want to stab you. With a blunt object.

“Forgetting” to change a diaper. No one in their right mind wants to change a diaper full of shit. But, in case you didn’t realize, we’re raising a little human here and yah, he’s going to shit on the pot one day [perfect example: our 4 year old. No more diapers. He takes man dumps on the pot. A lot actually.] So when you smell the shit just change the diaper. Don’t make him stew in it for hours and when I walk in say “Oh really? I didn’t realize he had shit running down his legs. Oh well, I’m going to the gym. Not It!” Yeah. Hahahahahaha. Calling “not it” on this one doesn’t count. Your kid now has diaper rash because you were lazy.

WHEW. I feel much better. And – now that I’ve worked out these issues on the internets, I won’t have to be a bitch at home.

Maybe.