New & Exciting!

So, when I start something new, I am all gung ho about it, and then after a short time, I lose interest or I just plateau or hate it because I can't get any farther. Somehow, I managed to keep the food blog alive, although there have been long absences. The second blog is fairly new, so I am chugging along with that one. Since no one reads it and it's really coming from a dark place, I don't feel the need to post on that one as often.

This new third blog o' mine is supposed to be a daily musings, so let's see how many days I can go before I don't post!

Day #2 (my favorite number because I'm juvenile like that)

I wasn't mad. Very annoyed though. Irritated as well. I went into the kitchen, and there was a vegetable oil slick on the counter that had spilled onto the floor as well. It was that fucking overpriced 123 brand oil I bought at the neighborhood Mexican store last week. I didn't even know it still existed. So, when I bought it, I took it home to cook. When I pulled the plastic ring to open it, the whole top of the mouth came off with it. I removed the ring and put the whole thing back on the bottle. I think I wanted to hide it so I would have a bottle of oil at home if I needed it, and also, so it wouldn't get knocked over and Exxon Valdez all over the kitchen.

The next day, the bottle was gone. My husband, TFP (the Food Pimp, which you understand if you read my food blog), had taken it to work. He's a private chef, and he mainly teaches cooking classes at apartment complexes in the clubhouse for the residents. So, he takes whatever he needs from the kitchen. I was fine with the bottle gone. It was out of my life.

Fast forward about a week later to today. There's that damn bottle again, laying sideways on the kitchen counter with half the oil covering the counter. I was pissed. It was like a poltergeist, that 123 oil. I yelled "fuck." TFP asked from the living room futon, "what?" I replied, "this stupid oil with the broken top spilled all over the place, and it's a pain in the ass to clean up." No answer.

No answer. Whenever there's some irritating occurence like this, there is often no answer. Not even an, "oh" or "that sucks" or even an "I didn't do it". I didn't spill the oil. The most likely candidates were Stinksy (the male cat) or TFP. So one of them might have cleaned it up or helped a little. Even if they didn't admit to it, one of them could have brought me a towel or rag or oil boom or something to act like they were helping.

Here's the thing. I married this man. I love him to death. He's my favorite person in the world. But he's a slob. He doesn't care about a messy dirty environment, really. I am not a neat freak by any means, but I don't like living in squalor. Sometimes it almost gets to that point in our apartment before it's remedied. Before, when we were younger and partied more, it would get to that point for several days before we cleaned. Now, usually before that point, I need to clean. The FP's tolerance for a dirty messy apartment is higher than mine, so I usually cave first and clean one little area like it's my safe zone. I don't expect him to jump in and start cleaning every time I do. Sometimes he does. Sometimes he doesn't.

I married him with the knowledge I couldn't change him. Part of why he's got such a great personality is his oblivion to everyday household life. He's like beyond that. Seriously. No sarcasm. You know, like great artists who were crazy with schizophrenia or bipolar or obsessive compulsive or whatever. The FP leaves cabinet doors open, doesn't put tops back on condiments or toothpaste, leaves the bathroom light on (which is annoying because the noise of the fan irritates me). He's rough with appliances and stuff. When he gets out of the car, the way he drags his ass on the seat rips the material on the seat. When we had a bedframe, he would flop onto the bed, and eventually the frame on his side of the bed caved, so it was lopsided. He leaves a residue of hair product on things.

I can't go around behind him and tell him to finish the cycle, close the door, switch off the light, put the cap on, figure a new way to exit the car, wash his hands after he touches his hair or applies product. I would just be nagging. He doesn't learn lessons and I know that. But can't I have license to get irritated every once in a while?!

Women who marry men and think they can break them, and who can't live with the annoying habits, usually are disappointed because they feel like they failed. I wouldn't want TFP to want to change me, with all my faults. Oh, and I have so many. I sometimes catch myself doing one of my annoying habits, and it pisses me off. I can't afford a therapist, so I write blogs instead.

I think when we were in college, the FP stepped on the prong of his belt. You know, his clothes were all over the floor and he didn't see it. It jammed right into his foot. He was a runner, so that sucked more than if it had happened to a run of the mill person who mainly needs their foot to walk. So, he said he learned his lesson there. Several years later, I remember seeing his belt on the floor, prong erect, saluting me, saying, see, he forgot all about me!

Here's the tradeoff though. He's good or great at everything he does. Okay, every once in a while there's something he's not good at, so he usually doesn't continue to try at it. But, any sport he's tried, he kicks ass. Cooking - he's one of the best cooks I know. Music - maybe he started off slow with guitar, but he's very adept now at the instrument - he blows me away as I have regressed if anything. When he listens to music, he can pick out individual parts and analyze them. If the guitar is a Fender Strat, he can tell. He can figure out what effects are being used. He remembers set lists to shows he's seen and shows he's played. He's really intelligent, although his shtick is that he acts dumb for laughs. His analytical ability is really highly underrated.

So, if he reads this, he'll either be pissed or embarrassed, or he will enjoy the attention. Because doesn't everyone love to be written about?

Anyway, I wasn't mad at him. I was mad at myself. Why didn't I just set the precedent of being a nag early in the relationship?