I love my husband. I absolutely have to reiterate to the world how amazingly compatible we are, due to his awesomeness measuring up to my own. I am bizarre and he tolerates that. I covered the mini-fridge with woodgrain contact paper. He is a man, so of course he wants everything to be all black and shiny or stainless steel, or something equally sleek and testicular. But I like the warmth of wood. So I took a half roll of woodgrain contact paper and slapped it on the mini fridge. I think it looks worlds better than it did, and he just shakes his head.
Someday I would like to have a sewing room. Maybe when the kids are grown I will appropriate a bedroom and make it into my sewing room. I will of course have to redecorate it, and I will do so with . . . . .(drumroll?) . . . . . fake wood paneling. I spent my childhood surrounded by fake wood paneling and I miss it, dammit! Ahhh, to have a sewing machine, a cutting table, bolts and bins of fabrics and notions, all in the warm glow of fake wood paneling. A girl can dream, can't she? And the absolute best thing is, I believe Tom would hang that awful paneling for me. Because he loves me just that much. And it will make him wince to look at, but he will do it nonetheless.
I have temper issues. from a distance, it is easy to say "Just ignore her ranting and fit-throwing and wait the ten minutes it takes her to do a 180 and be nice again," but you don't have to be on the receiving end of my thrown fits. Tom does. And I feel really bad for him because of it. But still, I will lose something and decide that it is because the house is a mess, which is because he moved the table I would have stored my things on, and therefor it is all his fault that I lost my keys. See? So stupid, but he lives with it. And all I do is apologize pointlessly, knowing I will do it again.
I fear my in-laws. Actually, I fear pissing them off and then being forced to awkwardly deal with them for the rest of my life. I feel like I'm a guest and have to be on my best behavior all the time and it makes it real easy for me to panic before holidays. Keep in mind, these are the people who introduced Tom and I, who were my friends before I ever married into their family. So it is completely stupid that I now fear them, yet I do. And every Christmas Tom listens to the same panicky rants he heard the year before. And on years where I am neither pregnant or nursing (so not since 2006) he buys me beer to get me through it. Somehow I'm okay with them thinking I have a drinking problem, but not with them thinking me rude.
He is reading this over my shoulder now and his ego is swelling and pushing me into the desk. I have to go snuggle him and hope he will be home again tomorrow night, because work has been sending him to Missouri and Nebraska, and other far off corners of the world lately. Bad work! Bad!