It's just one of those days. When nothing is wrong but everything is. When you are totally fine, but you're really not. When every time the Man of Your Dreams opens his mouth, all you can visualize is sewing it shut with Very Permanent Stitches. I am SUCH a monster today. No really. I am. You know it's bad when the resident Superhero mixes you a drink to help calm your nerves and you actually complain about it being too strong. Seriously? What kind of hormonal nightmare does that? As if scolding him for putting barbeque sauce on his cube steak sandwich wasn't enough. You know, I don't think it really matters if you got the recipe off of Pioneer Woman and wanted him to try it unadulterated and sing your culinary praises. I don't think a man who Loves Barbecue Sauce in every possible application would even notice a new recipe unless it was adorning his favorite condiment. But go ahead, girl. You chew him out for not tasting that bland, boring old steak sandwich without his One Joy in Life since all the slacker did all day was work. But for reals - that drink was STRONG. I wonder why? I really should be nice to him, since for the first time since I have known the man, he saw the opportunity to pay me a compliment and actually capitalized on it. I am fairly certain it was purely accidental, which leads me to believe that his resistance to verbal niceties is solid, stubborn obtuseness. But the shock on his face, and mine, when I mentioned I wouldn't want to be underfoot at his job site, and he shot back "when would you ever be underfoot, baby?" was absolutely unsurpassed. Baby steps, y'all. I'll take it. I immediately congratulated him and started making him a cube steak sandwich for dinner as a reward. Of course then, the monster of hormone in my head which lies dormant for about two thirds of the month, if Josh is lucky, began to raise her ugly head. "Why I should congratulate a man for a semi-passable comment when he should be lavishing praise upon my head daily?", became the all consuming thought. And then that darn cube steak with the barbecue sauce thing happened. Dammit all. (appropriate use of curse words here.)

With the glint of fear in his eyes, Josh scraped some barbecue sauce off on one end of his now ruined, but previously masterfully concocted sandwich, took a bite, and pronounced it "really good. and I don't like cube steak." Luckily cube steak sandwiches do not call for steak knives. Or that glint might have been replaced with a serrated blade.

Ever so tentatively, he's been asking what I would like to do for the evening. And as I gag theatrically on my overstrong tequila drink, I imagine all kinds of medieval torture devices I would like to experiment with. Josh quickly returns to his work, and lucky for him, the smart sucker - the tequila starts to kick in.

It doesn't help that I woke up in pain this morning and have been chasing it in waves throughout the day until finally I took a LARGE dose of painkillers and slept for four hours. The pain killers took the edge off of the pain but provided a nice dose of nausea and the four hour nap just made me feel like I had been marinading in dirty laundry for several days. How naps can be so good and so destructive all at once, I will never understand.

I feel bad for being so completely ridiculous. But it's really hard when things This Serious crop up. And then he starts picking the peely skin on the back of his heels and HE KNOWS I hate that. It's like he's just trying to make me despise him. It's an intense test of my self control. Which probably means I will go to bed in about 10 minutes.

The poor boy doesn't get that now is NOT the appropriate time to look up the Washington State EMT Basic Protocols and tell me that I was actually wrong about Nitro administration. Nor does he understand that wanting to go over remodel plans for our house and choose countertop colors is a really bad idea in This Exact Moment. Of course you're surprised that I don't like mocha brown paperstone counters honey, it's because you have no taste. Or style. And also, you're just showing me ugly colors to test me and pick a fight. Yeah, it went something like that. And probably the roofline for the new addition will never be settled upon.

To purge the sense of awfulness and pity for my Darling Husband that I am sure this has left you with, I shall bequeath upon you some poignant words of brilliant characters that totally back me up:

"I have seen too much not to know that the impression of a woman may be more valuable than the conclusion of an analytical reasoner."

SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

"There is in every true woman's heart, a spark of heavenly fire, which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity, but which kindles up and beams and blazes in the dark hour of adversity."

WASHINGTON IRVING, The Sketch Book

"Let men tremble to win the hand of woman, unless they win along with it the utmost passion of her heart."

NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE, The Scarlet Letter

"Woman's mind
Oft' shifts her passions, like th'inconstant wind;
Sudden she rages, like the troubled main,
Now sinks the storm, and all is calm again."

JOHN GAY, Dione

"If a woman shows too often the Medusa's head, she must not be astonished if her lover is turned into stone."

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW, Table-Talk

"I expect that Woman will be the last thing civilized by Man."

GEORGE MEREDITH, The Ordeal of Richard Feverel