How a garbage can really represents marital strife

I’ll begin this post by talking about what my marriage (and probably yours - if you’re being honest, at least) isn’t. It isn’t idyllic magic unicorn land. Champagne and roses. A place where yin and yang balance (perfectly of course). And the two of us live behind a white picket fence, with Peanut times 2.5. Forever and ever. Amen and the end.

Disclaimer: I love the man. He’s a good guy. A great guy. An amazing support. And we definitely have some form of yin and yang happening. It’s just that the “yin” and “yang” sometimes, um, clash. Maybe that counteracts the whole concept of yin and yang? *Sigh*. Let’s just not worry about that. Right now (at least).

For example. Take our garbage/recycling/disposal habits. The Husband: he’s a saver. Borderline hoarder, actually (I’m anticipating the mini-temper tantrum that will result from this designation). I'm all like, “let’s throw everything out!” If we haven’t used it, we don’t need it, right? Memories don’t exist in a five year old movie ticket. They’re part of your GD brain. And computer (we’re all 21st Century around here).

The refrigerator is dangerous territory. I like doing a major food cleanse at least once a week. A ruthless food cleanse. If it’s past it’s date, it’s done. Right in the trash. The Husband, on the other hand, loves old food. The older the better. Waste not, want not, a ridiculous man once said. He always finds a way to use every last morsel of meat, vegetable, carb, etc., etc. Usually it’s in the form of a casserole, or something equally disturbing.

Last night, I tossed a bowl of pistachios. They had been sitting in our cupboard for three freaking months (I know nuts don’t go bad. I was stuck in a moment of temporary insanity, feverishly trying to make space in our miniature kitchen). He heard them hit the bin.
The Husband: Did you just throw out those nuts?
Me: No. I didn’t throw anything out. Promise.
The Husband: You totally did. You threw out those nuts

And then. He stomped right over to the trash. Stuck in his hand. And grabbed a fistful of pistachio. No, he did not eat them (for the love of God, thank you). It was for effect.

He was pissed. The Superbowl was on television. He wanted snacks.

What’s a girl to do? Besides plan next week’s cleanse around The Husband’s absence, I guess. There’s marriage for you. In a nutshell.

On another note, I won’t be visiting any blogs tonight. I have a whole bunch of "things" to do...and, of course...never enough time.

I’ll be back tomorrow.

xoxo