My New Digs

I'm all moved in to my new digs, everything set up the way I want it. That is, apart from a few more angel pictures and china dolls and gauzy curtains than I would probably choose. But everything else in my room and in my car is set up my way, and only my way. Just like you'd think my last evening with my husband would be romantic and not frantic, you'd think moving back in together at the end of the summer would be amorous and not rancorous (yes, I had to check a thesaurus to come up with that rhyme). But it never is. Precisely because all summer long I get everything my way. None of my stuff moves of its own volition. Nobody except me drinks the last Dr. Pepper. Nobody runs the gas tank down and then parks the car in the driveway without telling me. As an added bonus, I just have to worry about my room. All household responsibilities belong to the people who actually live here and not the boarder in the basement. So, to sum things up, I get everything my way without having any actual responsibilities. So, it's really no surprise that going home to dogs that want to be played with, a husband that wants to be loved on, a household that wants to be cleaned up, and a bunch of people wanting an input on what I do, eat, watch, or listen to, doesn't go quite as smoothly as date movies might suggest it should.

Disclaimer: Scott is no worse, and probably better, than the average husband when it comes to all this stuff. And I am no better, and probably worse, than the average wife (e.g. "Didn't I tell you I invited four people to dinner tonight?"). I am not complaining about the situation when I am at home, so much as adjusting to that situation. So you don't need to post a comment defending yourself, honey.