This morning, I woke Husband with a flea in his ear. However, he’s lucky I didn’t wake him up by killing him.
For a number of weeks that now qualifies as months, Husband has been booking his flight to Dubai/London. Or to be more accurate, not booking. I eventually cracked and bought my own tickets six weeks ago, when I tired of nagging Husband to confirm dates.
Whenever I remind him to book flights, he says, “Oh yes, I’ll do that later,” in the most pleasant of manners that ensures I’ll sound like a harridan if I tell him he’s been saying that SINCE THE VERY DAWN OF TIME with NO MEASURABLE OUTCOME OR EFFECT WHATSOEVER apart from DRIVING ME INSANE.
Despite being quite accomplished at it, I hate being a nag. I can barely stand the way I sound – heaven only knows how Husband can. These days I pick my battles. Husband’s lamb chops will sit leaking blood all over the kitchen counter rather than being put in the fridge and/or freezer by someone unnamed, because although one of us may end up with their head stuck down a toilet bowl, I’m pretty confident it won’t be me.
I’ve tried a number of different approaches: pleading, bribery, threats, food deprivation. Nothing works. Nothing. Nothing! In fact, if I ask for something more than three times, it results in a visible digging-in-of-heels effect, which ensures I would have better luck pushing a donkey up a hill.
Maybe he thinks, ‘Oh, Wife’s on the case so that’s going to get done,’ without taking into account his variable input into the equation. Or perhaps it’s a cunning plan to make me do it myself – which often works. Or he could be testing my mental health – in which case I’d like to know when I graduate.
So this morning, when I asked whether he’d booked his flight yesterday, and he said no, and THEN asked why didn’t I remind him, I carefully inserted aforementioned flea in his aural canal