So, there I was, on my so-called summer blog vacation, supposed to be getting shit done, but I wasn't. I did manage to go to doctor's appointments and what-not, but stupid me, I forgot it was Migraine Week, and I picked up some kind of a bug that made the lymph nodes in my neck all puffy and made me all tired, so I was just sleeping a lot.
I did manage to do one thing, though; I made broccoli salad. I had been meaning to make some broccoli salad for a while, as I had tried it at the deli in Stater Bros., and I was pretty sure I could make it for far less than the $5.99 per lb. they were charging for it. So, I got all the ingredients, about $10 worth (which may not seem much, but we are on a budget) and made a huge batch. So that was what I had done tonight.
But now, sadly, I will never be able to eat my broccoli salad. I have gone off it.
"Why?" you ask? Well, I'll tell you why. The Spouse Sparrow, who had been slagging off my broccoli salad all night, telling me how minging it was, decided to have some.
Of course, I didn't find this part out until he boked it all up over my side of the bed, my pillows, and my side of the bedroom, floor and walls and baby crib included. Oh no, I never would have known he had eaten any broccoli salad if the entire bedroom, including exercise bike, shoes, dressers, and spare blanket were not covered in little broccoli florets. The carpet is drenched, as before he ate the broccoli salad, he drank an assload of vodka, followed by a lot of water, apparently.
He then went on to liberally coat the hallway and the bathroom in tiny chunks of greenery. Yes, there was also carrots, as the broccoli salad had carrots in it. My only saving grace is that I was at the computer, and not in the bed when he horked. The baby, asleep in his crib, missed getting puked on by about 6 inches. Nice.
I could kill the Spouse Sparrow, I really could. It's left to me, the one with the horrible headache, to mop up the mattress, bedroom, bathroom, etc., while he is passed out on the couch. I'm the one that will be up all night washing pillows, sheets, and trying to pick chunks out of the carpet. I'm the one who'll spend the next 3 days shampooing the carpet in the bedroom and the hallway. I'm the one that is scared of bugs, and now I have to go back and forth to wash all the stuff, out in the garage with all the flying, crawling, and hopping things.
And it really, really chaps my thighs because he fucking well knows that I have a serious phobia, an actual phobia, about people barfing, and he really, really knows I don't like him to drink that much. I don't care if it's part of the British/Irish culture, he's fucking well in America now and he should adjust.
He is passed out on the couch at the minute, as the mattress will have to dry out for a day or so (and will still smell like shite when it does, and let's not forget that smell will be on my side), and I am tempted to smother him with my puked-on pillow. And do you know what's stopping me? The thought of him shitting and pissing on the couch when he carks it from me smothering him. I would kill him, but I'd just have another mess to clean up.
And he actually had the audacity to give me a dirty look when I ordered him out of the bedroom and on to the couch, and provided him with the barf bucket.
Truly, the thrill is gone.