Someone's missing their funny bone

PTSD is such a nasty thing.  It is anxiety.  All the time.  When you're anxious you don't find humor in things.  You instantly turn to worst case scenarios and make mountains out of mole hills, sometimes out of ant hills!  It has caused so much heartache and tears and bouts of anger in my household and it's taken away the humor in my husband.  

Case in point:

Tonight I let my 8 month old bulldog out back to do her business.  The hubby was gone so I left her out there while I got the kids ready for bed.   Afterwards, I opened up the sliding glass door, opened the screen door and stepped out into the night, shutting the screen door behind me.   Well, I unhooked her collar from the lead and she took off like a bullet out of a gun.

Straight through the screen door.


I couldn't believe it.  The dumb-ass dog must have not seen the screen.  I couldn't believe she went through it like that, like there was nothing there.  I was annoyed, already thinking ahead to when I was going to find time to fix it, but after a minute or two I smiled.  It was kind of funny!

I called up the Hubs to let him know.  He found it less than humorous.  In fact, he was downright pissed off about it.  He started swearing into the phone about how he hated the dog, how she was no good, yadda yadda, etc etc.    I ended up hanging up on him because he was so grouchy and I think he was enjoying hearing himself yell, to be honest.

He was still a ways off in the car so he didn't make it home for another 40 minutes or so.  He walked in, yelled at the dog, grouched at everyone, and sat down on the couch, bitching about random crap.   Then when I told him it was kind of funny, that the dog did that, he said, "yeah, it's funny to you.  You don't have to pay for it".   I don't really get that....it's his old stand by veiled insult to me.  Because I've stayed home to raise our kids and take care of him, we have lived off of his income alone.  Somehow, when he says that, I think I'm supposed to be offended.  I used to be, but now I mentally roll my eyes and tell him to take a pill.

Anyway, I wish he found humor in the small stuff.  Life would be a little easier if he would.  Come on, a big fat bulldog puppy just burst through a screen door like a knife through butter.  Yes, it's going to be a pain to fix but only because we'll have to take the time to either take the screen in, or fix it ourselves.
In the grand scheme of things, it isn't a big deal and it was funny!

At least, I thought so...

Laundry is not a dirty word

I hate laundry.  For 2 adults, a child and an infant, we have quite the load of dirty clothes.  Every time I have to attack that dreaded chore, I cringe a bit inside.

It seems that laundry is the never-ending chore.  No matter how hard I try, I cannot get caught up.  About the time I get all of the loads washed and folded and put away, a new pile awaits me.  Never.  Ending.

I don't actually mind the washing part.  We have a laundry chute that our clothes go down and ends up in the basement.  The only clothes that don't go down are the kids clothes.  Each child has their own laundry basket in their room and it's not much to lug those down to the basement either.  Sometimes our daughter's clothes end up down the chute also, so it's really just the baby's clothes that are kept separate and the only reason for that is the fact that his clothes get washed in Dreft.

I hate that moment that I open up cabinets to the bottom of the laundry chute.  I open them and there's usually a pile of clothes waiting for me.  A pile, so high, that towers up into the chute above it.  I have to be very careful pulling out the clothes, because one false move and the whole pile will come raining down on me in an avalanche of dirty clothes.   Sigh.

I'm not much for sorting the clothes.  I usually gather as many as i can and shove them in the washer.  We have a high efficiency and I can cram a lot in there.  The only snafu with this method is my husband's nasty habit.   He smokes and for some God-only-knows-reason, he shoves the cigarette butts in his pants pockets.  He says its so he doesn't litter.  I call it flat out laziness.  He is home 80% of the time and we do own trashcans.   I've tried rebelling and telling him I'm not doing his laundry unless he cleans out his pockets, but since he doesn't care if he stays in the same clothes for days at a time, this didn't really work.  So my sorting also consists of digging into his pockets and pulling out butts and tossing them in the trash.  Then my hands smell like nasty cigarettes.  Ew. Ew. Ew.

The part I hate the most about doing laundry?  It's the actual sorting and putting away once they're clean.  I'm the only one who seems to know how to do this job too.  I tell ya, I'm a real one-woman-machine here.  By the time I've sorted, and cleaned pockets and washed and also taken care of the baby and Hubs in between washings, I'm beat.  I end up piling the cleaned clothes onto beds where they stay for days until I get them put away.  Or, I tend to dump them into a clean laundry basket until I get to putting them away.  Problem is, I tend to not do that very quickly and by the time I do, the cycle has started all over again.

Never. Ending.

Maybe someday the Laundry Fairy will come visit me and take over this chore.  Or maybe someday my husband will actually take initiative and start doing the laundry himself.

I think I have a better chance of the Fairy coming.