Ty went to the store today to get stuff for dinner and the first thing I said when I got home (after a short story about my day, of course) was "what's for dinner?". His response? "Chicken." My response: "I love you for getting dinner stuff tonight, but I feel like that's always what you get when its your turn. Steamed veggies on the side I'm guessing?" I knew that if he didn't say chicken, he would have said spaghetti. That's always his runner up. I could tell he was annoyed with me for complaining. I can't imagine why. I would never be annoyed with him if he complained about dinner. Especially if I went and picked everything up after a long day at work. Riiiight.
Then he says, "Would you rather I make
So I'll own it. I am a brat sometimes. I complain when my absolutely patiently perfect husband makes me
dinner chicken sometimes. It's not like he doesn't make good chicken, because he does. It's just so predictable. Sometimes I wish he'd say he's making sweet and sour pork or chocolate cake for dinner. I'd be cool with that. (That just happens to be what I am craving tonight.)
I know what you're thinking. The poor guy can't do anything right - how the heck is he supposed to know you want something different if you never tell him. Plus, you are super lucky so quit complaining. It's ridiculous. Now, go apologize.
(Love you, Babe. Like, a lot. See? I'm sorry.)
P.S. I am loving OWN - you know, the Oprah-rules-the-world-Network. I am already crafting a post on this because I am, and have been for quite some time, drinking the Oprah kool-aid. Stay tuned.