You're Wrong. I'm Right. Just Stop Talking.

EDITED TO NOTE THAT BLOGGER IS A FUCKING ASSHOLE THAT DOESN'T UNDERSTAND HOW TO SCHEDULE A POST. Sorry.

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The husband argues that we have two standards in our household.  I actually agree. There are things as they pertain to me, and then there is everyone else who can go fuck themselves.  [Right now, that everyone else is the husband and the cats.  Those asshole cats who cause endless problems.  One of whom, by the way, spent last night with a PIECE OF ACTUAL SHIT stuck to her butt that she tried to wipe off BY DRAGGING HER STUPID CAT ASS ACROSS THE BACK OF THE COUCH AND THEN ON TO THE END TABLE AND THEN INTO THE OFFICE AND THEN ON TO MY DESK.  There are not enough disinfecting wipes in the world to make me feel whole again.  Seriously.  I'm puking just thinking about it.  Whatever fucking cockbag said that having a pet makes you feel more relaxed and helps you live longer is either a douchey liar or someone who enjoys fecal matter.  In either case, no one I want to know.  Fucking asshole cat.  OH.  And to top it off, this cat is 12 years old and, like all crazy old people, has developed a ridiculous habit, so instead of just dealing with THE PIECE OF SHIT HANGING OFF HER ASS, where I had to wrap her in a towel to keep her from scratching and clawing at us while the husband got the pleasure of WIPING THIS CAT'S ASS, the husband also noticed, as she was hissing at him, that the stupid cat had a piece of tissue paper stuck to her tooth.  Because of course she eats tissue paper. I need to go lie down now.]

So, yes, we have two standards - actually, maybe three standards: One for me, one for the husband, one for the paper eating, shit hoarding cats.  These standards may make it seem like we'd be having all kinds of drama [besides the catshit related kind] but in fact, the husband and I tend to not disagree on much.

I mean, don't get me wrong, there have been many days where we've gone out separate ways in the morning, each cursing the other for being a complete fucking self-involved asshole moron.  And there are times when one or the other of us has to say, "Really? That's how you want this to end? You want us to get a divorce because I didn't fill up the ice cube tray?" But the hours pass, and emails are sent discussing the advisability of purchasing a deep fryer [Inadvisable, but so delicious. Maybe for Christmas.] and we move past the ugliness.

Also, we have very little in common, hobby-wise.  We both like to read, but not the same kind of stuff.  We both like to watch movies, but different genres.  He has no interest in discussing the idiocy of various friends and family and I have no interest in discussing the idiocy of trying to use a hurry-up offense when men are on first and third and the zamboni is clearing the ice. Or whatever.

There is, however, a bone of contention that gets tossed into the mix every so often.

It is this:  Making the bed.

I feel, very strongly, that the bed should be made every day.  The husband does not see the point, as it will just get messed up each night.  I find comfort in being able to walk into my bedroom and see a nice, clean bed, with the pillows fluffed and the blankets pulled taut.  He is blind to this joy.  If he does make the bed, he will sometimes make it about 15 minutes before I go to sleep, which, to me, misses the point.  It also allows spiders to crawl into my sheets.  I submit that the bed should be made no later than 30 minutes after you've gotten up [this is ample time for ablutions].  When I walk into the bedroom and the husband hasn't made the bed, I die a little inside [PS it's the husband's job, as I am generally on my way to work by the time he gets out of the bed. I am tempted, sometimes, to make it while he's still in it.].

So we fight about this.  Who is right? Me? Or Mr. Wrong?

Answer carefully.  The fate of the universe depends on it.