Last night the girl went to a friend's house for the evening. The husband and I enjoyed our dinner of leftovers and watched the first episode of Six Feet Under. Which wasn't bad, actually. Neither of us cared for the constant fantasy with the dead father, but it was engaging and the characters seem to spring fully formed, which is always nice.
Anyway, the husband was going to pick up the girl, and I decided to do our dinner dishes, because although the dishes are the girl's responsibility, she had already done a load that day and I thought it kind of unfair that she'd have to do our dishes when she wasn't even part of the mess-making.
So I went into the darkened kitchen and reached over a pile of dishes and the husband's glass from dinner to turn on the light. And I knocked the husband's glass onto the floor where it shattered and sprayed glass shards all over the fucking place.
I was pissed, obviously.
I was tempted to leave the mess for the husband to clean up, because we are married and that should be/is his job. Also, you know, it was his glass.
Except those stupid cats would probably walk into the kitchen and impale their stupid paws on the stupid glass, and then it would be $$$ at the vet or else homestyle amputation, neither of which seemed like something I wanted to deal with at the time.
So I swept up the glass and swept up the glass and SWEPT UP THE GLASS and then I did the dishes. I was about to wipe the floor with a bleach wipe [because the husband's glass of course had a bit of Coke in it, and the floor was a bit sticky] when the husband and the girl came in.
I asked the husband to wipe up the floor, which, to his credit, he did.
But he did it while complaining about how he had to wipe up the floor.
At which point this took place:
Me: "Well, none of this would have happened if you hadn't put your glass in the wrong spot."
Husband: "On the counter? That wrong spot?"
Me: "Yes. The counter was the WRONG place for that. Nice work. It's totally your fault."
Husband: "Ah ha! See! I knew it! I knew it would somehow be my fault."
The Girl: "Why do you always blame Dad?"
Me: "What the hell else is the point of being married?"