Blue-arsed blow-up

Dyeing my hair and eyelashes, waxing my brows, spack-filling with new cosmetics … my desire for a makeover hasn’t stopped with my face, I’ve started on the house now. Poor Husband spent his day off at Bunnings, pretending to care whether we got a square or a rectangular outdoor table. After that, we drove to a homemaker centre, so he could pretend to care about whether we got a square or a rectangular indoor table. Then came the big debate over whether the tables should be pine, eucalyptus, walnut, teak, metal, plastic … At home, he patiently arranged pieces of newspaper on the floor in the shapes of the prospective tables so we could see how they’d fit in the space. Then, just when he was hoping to relax with a nice cup of tea, I made him rearrange every piece of furniture in both living areas. Many, many times. And I still wasn’t happy. Plus, all that staggering around with heavy objects put us hopelessly behind schedule on our weekly mad-tidy-up-for-the-cleaners palaver. So, after dinner, I rushed around like a blue-arsed fly, frantically shoving stuff away. I dashed into the family room and discovered Husband on the rearranged sofa, drinking tea and reading the newspaper. I gave him a LOOK. You know the look I’m talking about. The one that says, “How dare you sit reading the paper while I clean up the whole bloody house!” And then it was on for young and old. Because Husband felt he’d tried hard to please me all day. He hadn’t complained about being dragged to Bunnings and the homemaker centre. He hadn’t complained about me using his front-page story about the white-collar recession to make pretend tables on the floor. He hadn’t complained when I said the entertainment cabinet was too heavy and made him heft it up the stairs to the lounge room by himself. He found it particularly galling because he was dubious that we needed to do any of it. He’d been indulging me (because he couldn’t bear a repeat of the unreasonable-bastard-who-refuses-to-go-to-the-Hunter-Valley saga). I eventually apologised 12 hours later. I’m not very good at apologising, because I think I’m always right. But I conceded I might have been a bit difficult. Husband, on the other hand, isn’t very good at accepting apologies. He uses them as an excuse to have another go at you. Which sort of puts you off making them. You end up wondering if sulky silence might have been preferable to another earful. But he seems to have let it go this time. We hugged. Harmony was restored. Except, you know, I’m still not sure about the new furniture configuration …  

TONIGHT’S DINNER: Roast lamb with a warm fetta, lemon and olive dressing. I normally slow-roast the lamb, but I won’t have time, so I’m going the quick-roast route. I’ll let you know how it goes.