So yesterday went a little like this:
8:45 am—I was ravenously hungry for some reason, and ate my morning snack 45 minutes early.
10:30 am—I e-mailed Brian to let him know that my stomach was bothering me; received a quick response from him asking what would make me feel better; I responded immediately with, “cookies.”
11:30 am—I then e-mailed Brian the following:
Secretly I want to ditch my lunch and go out to eat, but that would ruin tomorrow’s plan to go out to lunch, so I am going to have to suck it up and stay here. Woe is me.
Pause: Girls, can any of you translate this thought for me? In case you need some help, here is a loose translation: “I feel too guilty to admit that I would rather go to Pappasito’s and stuff my face than eat my boring turkey sandwich, so please pretend that it was your idea and come ‘force’ me go to out to eat.”
And this is where things went horribly awry. Rather than responding as the translation above suggests, Brian replied to tell me that he did, indeed, feel very sorry for me. The end.
12:15 pm—I received an e-card from Brian sent in an effort to appease my irrational behavior, but still no cookie.
1-4 pm—I then spent the remainder of the day pouting and not-so-subtly guilt tripping him for not taking me to lunch or bringing me a cookie… all the while secretly hoping that he was going to surprise me by showing up with a treat.
4:15 pm—After a phone call from a clueless Brian about our DVR box, I realized that I would not, in fact, be getting a surprise visit… or a cookie. A mild, passive-aggressive temper tantrum ensued.
5 pm—A thoughtful friend coincidentally dropped by the house to drop off a treat that she picked up at the bakery… 3 cookies. I was not home yet, so Brian intercepted. You can imagine the guilt he felt at this point.
6 pm—I arrived home from work to find 3 cookies from my friend…
… and flowers from Brian.
7:15 pm—We took a trip to Chick-Fil-A and I had an ice dream cone while Brian enjoyed a milkshake. All was once again right in the world.
So thanks to Brian’s impressive husbandly maneuvers, he has temporarily been spared of my irrational PMS-induced rage. Unfortunately for Houston drivers, anyone I encountered on my commute this morning was not. I mean, I’m sorry, but GET OUT OF MY WAY.
Here’s to being shamelessly irrational and blaming it on hormones!