Well, that was a nice five seconds

READER WARNING:
Dom, don't read this, or the post before it for that matter. You just became twitterpated, and I'd hate for you to read my despairing ramblings on the woes of coupled life. And I know you have always tried to remain impartial about Rick and I, so just click outta here, and I'll email you when it's safe to read again.

Rick came home from work today and pretty much fell right back into asshole mode. After this, I now regret only spending a measely $1.40 on my coffee "treat" this afternoon. His mother had sent me a check for my birthday (checks, checks, everywhere!), so we had to go down to Moneytree to cash it. Then we went to Walgreen where he had me go in and buy him cigs and a carton of milk. So, with the $28 that was left of the original $40, I was happily planning a trip to Goodwill (can we tell I love this store?), and even wanted to run to Jack in the Box for dinner so I didn't have to cook tonight, cuz I was tired and really didn't feel like pork.
Oh, no, that would be a waste of the money. So we drive away from the road to JIB, much to my Jumbo Taco craving dismay. We pull into Holywood, because he keeps blathering on about how there's supposed to be some good flicks out. Even though I am mentally checking off the schedule of programs for the next few days that we already watch, I figure he's the boss so I'll just go with it *remember, folks, pick your battles*.
I mentioned to him I was concerned about the extensive late fees he has on the account for a video game he rented a while back. He just shrugged it off, and then said we were going to swing by the bank afterwards. Why?
"Because you are going to put that leftover cash into the account" (for those of you who aren't aware, "the account" is his account, only in his name, and completely unaccessable to me).
"Why? It was my birthday gift, and I had plans to spend it."
He began to launch into some bullshit about how we were in 'hard times', I'm being selfish, blah blah blah. Well, bullshit. I picked my battle.
"If we are in such hard times, why are we standing in front of Hollywood video, when we have satelllite television at home?" hear acid dripping off of my voice at this point
"Because I wanted to rent Passion of the Christ" Now mind you, he's been going on about wanting to see this flick due to morbid curiosity. I have absolutely no desire to watch gratuitous violence splattered across my screen in the name of religion. The way we usually solve this problem is called "compromising movie night". Since he's the only one who wants to see it, I get to rent a movie on the same night that he has no interest in either. We'll only do this on weekends, when we can force eachother to watch our horrid picks back to back. Well, apparently this is flying out the window. But, since he seems determined to build up fucktard points, I simply hold my tongue of reminding him of our usual deal. Plus, since I am sensing an argument pending regarding the money, this is another "pick our battles" momment.
So we go inside and meander around, and he picks up the disk, showing it to me. I shrug and remind him I had no desire of watching such a film, but if he was so intent on it, to go right ahead. I wandered over to the children's section to check out possible monkey movies. He joins me, sans DVD. When I ask why, he proceeds to go on about how he'll "never hear the end of it", and how I am being a bitch about the cash situation anyways. ?????????? I am now completely not understanding the point of this entire little excursion.
Well, we didn't go to the bank. Just home, where I crawled into bed to nap and stew for a bit. He grumbled, but apparently decided this was a "pick your battles" momment for him and didn't complain. When I woke up Antony was fed, and a while later I trotted him off to bed. I got kissy faced, which perked up my mood substantially.
NARRATIVE EXPLANATION:
"kissy faced" is an adorable manuever my son does when I'm holding him. If I lean over and kiss his cheek, he'll giggle and reach around my head in a tight hug, smooshing my face into his for more kissiness. It is the sweetest thing EVER.
I came back out and told Rick that he needed to help me pick out his dress attire for the next day. See, he had called me in the afternoon and told me to pull out a nice outfit for an interview he was having, and make sure it was ironed and de-cat-haired for him. He lacks the ability to perform this task on his own, apparently. Well, inevitably whatever I pick out he never likes, so I figured I'd wait til he got home and we'd play "match the shirt and tie" together. So, we go in and pick out a set, and hang it in the living room to prevent errant kitty fuzz. Conveniently, he picked a shirt that was not only one of the nifty "wrinkle-proof" kind, but I had just pulled it out fo the dryer yseterday so it was crisp, clean and neat. So, we settle in, eat our dinner, watch some TV. At 11:15, he gets up to go to bed, and I am about to follow. He stares at me.
"You are supposed to iron my clothes! And pick all the cat hair off! You can't go to bed!"
Which is why it's no 11:48 and I am furiously typing this shit out and contemplating the reality of quite possibly wanting to get a divorce. I know this seems a relatively stupid kind of day to get upset over, but I am a sensitive gal, and this crap is starting to really build up. We have some serious respect problems in our house, yet I can't address them with him, because of the whole anxiety problem thing going on. Until his meds actually get sussed out, he's like a walking time bomb. Anytime I try and talk about what's going on, he flips about 'having yet another thing to stress him out'. And I know it may seem like my ramblings here are me falling into some fucked up girly "I'm such a victim" pattern, but I just honestly have no other outlet for venting. So, I'm sorry if the last few posts have caused your collective shoulders to become a little too dampened for your expectations, but hey, I can't be the wise cracking, shoot from the hip kinda gal all the time. Sometimes even a big girl needs to cry.