My Husband works for the Government.
I’m pretty sure?
Whatever. He goes somewhere for 9 hours a day and typically comes home every evening too tired to argue with me or paw all over me.
I can’t imagine our marriage could even get any better!
Marriage is very delicate you know. Once you have a good thing going, you don’t mess with it.
I’ll admit, I don’t pay much attention to the news since Mac was born. It just seems like a bunch of alarmist garbage that I could do without. . .
So I wasn’t really prepared when Husband came home about a week ago and casually mentioned there was a decent chance he would be furloughed one day a week if the Government couldn’t figure things out.
Sure, some logical or practical folks might panic at this sort of news for financial reasons.
I’m not those folks.
My immediate reaction was: What? Wait. What? You’re going to be home one extra day EVERY week?! FOR MONTHS?!
THIS IS HUGE!
THIS IS A HUGE PROBLEM!
Currently, Husband and I have very neat, tidy, clearly defined roles. My “workplace” is this house and it’s full of cool secret shit I don’t disclose. . .like where I put a Gallon of milk, my kid’s socks, or Babe The Woodland Squirrel. His “workplace” is a place I imagine which is also full of cool secret shit he can’t (or won’t) talk about.
I do not enter his workplace. He only enters my workplace on weekends. . .when ahem presumably we are both taking a break from our “work.”
This arrangement has performed beautifully for us since mid-May of 2011 when I went on maternity leave.
Now it’s in jeopardy!
If Congress can’t get their shit together, I’m errr We’re screwed.
My Husband is kind and funny. . .thoughtful. . .compassionate. . .all that I could want. . .
BUT. . .
He uses at least six drinking glasses per day.
He burns through 3 pair of socks per day minimum.
He passes a LOT of gas.
He gets the Kid worked up into such a lather I can barely deal.
He loads the dishwasher weird.
He talks so EFFING loud and so much in the morning, not even his awesome dippy eggs on wheat toast served to me in bed can make it right. . .
He asks questions that make me feel all stabby. . .Like “Where is the Milk?” when he’s standing in front of the open refrigerator with one hand on the milk.
And worst of all?! Our toilet paper subscription with Amazon.com is going to need serious adjusting.
Congress, please, please, please get your $%^&R*^$^%$# together. Please?