Hmmm, wow, it’s been a REALLY long time since I’ve written an entry.
Not sure exactly why that is. Probably any explanation would be an over-share. Even MisterT is wondering why I haven’t logged on. And, I can only tell him that it’s not for lack of evil MisterT material.
It’s because I really have too much to choose from.
Check it out:
MisterT and I fight over who should wash our dirt covered windows. I suggest the perfect solution: matchstick blinds. This makes MisterT really, really mad.
MisterT freaks out and blames me for dog fur he finds stuck to his socks.
(And, speaking of socks…) MisterT accuses me of some kind of subterfuge involving the quantity of clean but unmatched socks he discovers in the designated unmatched socks basket. MisterT is forced to try and mate the socks himself (the humanity!), resulting in a large quantity of matches but also STILL a large quantity of unmatched single socks. This causes yours truly to be subjected to a long, sad speech about the value of unmatched socks and how much they cost in the store (he estimated $25) and how, obviously, I am the cause of the unmated and now unusable socks. [It should be noted that MisterT, at any given time, has enough socks in his sock drawer to outfit a platoon. Apparently, this is no where near enough.]
MisterT spends large amounts of time criticizing my management of our Netflix movie queue. When a movie is not to his liking, I am grilled on the why’s and wherefore’s of how that particular movie ended up in our DVD player and how I could have possibly had the nerve to subject his highness to such a thing. He expects me to defend these less than optimal movie choices as if I were in the witness box and under cross examination in a murder trial. Enjoyable movies elicit no comment.
MisterT bought a new washer and dryer. They are very nice appliances in which I can wash MisterT’s unmatched socks. MisterT expends a great deal of time and energy threatening me with all manner of medieval tortures should I have the nerve to drip laundry detergent on their pristine white surfaces. I do a few loads of laundry and several times catch MisterT prowling about the laundry closet searching for telltale blue drips. When he doesn’t find any, he launches into a long one-person dialog on the state of the washer and dryer I owned and used during the years we dated. He concludes by saying they looked like they were shat out of the ass of a syphilitic yak. [It should be noted that he didn’t begin commenting on the state of my pre-marital appliances until after we were in fact wed.]
It is for these reasons, and a few thousand others, that I can no longer ignore the preferences of my readers who, by a slim majority of 80%, prefer that MisterT be referred to by his rightful and original name of “Satan”. Even my grandmother, I learned this weekend, prefers Satan (she thinks “Lucifer” is much, much scarier).
Lest you think I’m uncaring, I’ve ordered Satan four packages of these from my best good friends at The Container Store.
I’ll leave it to your imagination where they might be placed upon receipt.