Grouchy

It all started last night. And I'll try to tell you it's all Josh's fault. Because he's a lazy, good-for-nothing, sit-around-watching-stupid-tv, leaving-dishes-on-the-floor, not-catering-to-my-every-whim, make-me-do-the-laundry-by-myself, selfish, mean, out-to-get-me, spaghettios-can-leaving-outing, dirty-dish-creating, inconsiderate MAN.

But don't believe me. Sometimes I lie.

The truth is, I'm being unreasonable and I am completely aware of that. I actually slammed the door last night. I hate door slamming. But for some reason I still insist on being grouchy and tired and grouchy and worn down and grouchy and impatient and grouchy and rude and grouchy and mad and grouchy and hurt and grouchy and mean and intolerant and impatient and grouchy a couple more times today. 

Only I'm not smiling this much and my hair is brown. Not green. And my unibrow is less......bushy. I hope. Heaven help me if it isn't.

In my defense: What's a girl supposed to do when her husband makes her wash ALL the dishes, fold the laundry AND finds Animal Planet more interesting than her?