Oh my dear friends, I write to you with a very mixed up countenance right now. My husband and I have been having problems with Saturday mornings. I have worked on Saturdays practically since before we were married. Now I work from home and am my own boss. The success or failure of my venture lies entirely in my hands. If I "work" it seems to be working quite well. If I don't I imagine it would not. He works ridiculous hours, 5am to 6pm Monday through Friday, and does not get enough sleep. Then when he sleeps late on Saturday mornings he gets upset that his day is nearly gone by the time he wakes up. He wants to get up, get going, and get out the door like he does every other day of the week. But this time he wants to go enjoy his life. Who can blame him? Well I can tell you how incredibly difficult that scenario is for this Fibrate, unless you are one and already know firsthand. I need to wake up slowly, scratch some puppy belly and maybe a little behind the ears. See what is going on in the Fun part of the house, stretch, drink my coffee, eat some cereal so I can take my vitamins and get myself ready. You know, a few hours of leisurely primping me and my life. Rushing any more than that creates consequences. Consequences that hurt. Yet you can imagine this leaves my husband waiting around for me for quite some time, asking "How much longer?" or "When do you think you are going to be ready?" every 30 SECONDS!!! Tensions have been building for some time now and this morning the balloon burst.
I woke up just after he did, a bit after 11am. Usually on Saturday mornings we go to the coffee shop and then the dog park. We mumbled something about getting up and going and I said I could be ready to go in about 25 minutes, and went to go jump in the shower. As I was getting in I remembered the Scottish festival my mom had told me loads of family were coming in for. I told my husband to call her and got in under that steaming stream of muscle soothing hot water. The next thing I know I am supposed to be ready in 25 minutes to leave for the Scottish Festival all day and we are taking the dogs and we need to go to the bank and do we have chairs we can bring (?) and go go go! It looks gloomy and cold outside and is predicted to be a damp, rain a comin' day. My hip is throbbing and everything else just hurts. I jump on here, realizing I am not even going to have time to read posts, let alone blog, and start rush rush a rushin'! Finally I get so pissed off like I do every Saturday when our expectations just don't jive, and I am in so much freakin' pain that I start bitching. I unload every pent up emotion surrounding this aspect of our life through body shaking sobs and very quickly we are in a big ol' fight. Somehow we make it to the dog park, we come home and like usual it is 2 in the afternoon and I have not had a bite to eat or my vitamins and meds and feel horrible. I am in major self-destructo mode and know I cannot sit there fighting with him so I freak out, grab my purse, tell him I am leaving and will be back later as I slam the door with a nice dramatic flair.
I go to Denny's. I drink coffee, cry, talk on the phone, eat, take something for the pain at last, knowing that is in some way responsible for my hypersensitive reactions. Then I go to pay. And I don't have my wallet. So this terrible run-away wife has to call her husband to come pay her bill at Denny's! At this point I am talking to my mom and she is laughing at what a silly predicament I have put myself in. He comes, he pays, we talk, we acquiesce, both in areas that are necessary. And we decide since Saturday is a work day for me and he is not getting his personal stuff done over the weekends that on Saturdays I work and he does his stuff till 4 but from 4 o' clock on through Sunday night it is exclusively family time solamente. And no, we never made it to the Scottish Festival. But we did something far better. We made up ;)
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