Call it my upbringing. Call it my continuing fantasy that Sundays are for family time and football and pot roast. Whatever. That is my deluded little Norman Rockwell wish for my Sundays, even if they very rarely turn out that way.
I want to wake up Sunday morning and snuggle up with my husband and my munchkin and lazily get up to make coffee and a big egg and bacon breakfast which we all eat together joking and smiling over our coffee mugs and sippy cup at each other basking in the amazingness of the kid(s), making phone calls to distant relatives while I do the dishes and we settle into the couch to watch football on TV and our son runs around the living room with his Nerfball shouting "GOOOOOO!!!!" until halftime when I get up to start the dinner
Here's the problem, aside from the obvious things like hubby not liking football and not owning any board games...
We'll call him Sam. Sam is the roommate I've referenced over the last month plus. And by all that is holy, as of Friday, we managed to clear out the camper and give Sam his own place to stay. He has a bed, space to put his things, privacy, electricity and even his own fridge. He still has to come in to use the bathroom and wash his dish(es) but, by and large, he's self sufficient... You. Would. Think.
So, imagine how perturbed I was to wake up, come out to the kitchen and find Sam in my spot on the couch hawking for coffee. WTF?
First I get no snuggle time on a Sunday morning, but now, I'm greeted by someone I thought I didn't have to have in my house 24-fucking-7, sitting in MY spot on the couch, the one I wanted to crash into while waiting for coffee to brew and watch a movie with my husband while my son ran around like a mini-maniac-on-a-sugar-high, but no. I have to see
Ya know, when you rent an apartment, you don't go to the landlord's apartment every morning for coffee and then leave your coffee mug there to be washed. You don't use the landlord's washing powder to do your laundry and you don't hawk around the landlord's place waiting for them to feed you. You also don't constantly ask the landlord to run you to town because you're such a fucking looser that you can't get your car fixed and registered in THREE YEARS but you can use it to go to work making just enough to pay your child support because otherwise you'd go to jail, a pittance in rent, and keep yourself in beer and cigarettes.
So, I call hubby into the bedroom after starting coffee to gently
Yeah, I see me not being real gentle about the Sam situation anymore. I see me turning into YankeeSuperBitch WhoDoesn'tBelieveInHospitalityOrCompassion AndDefinitlyNotCookingOrAnyOtherKindOfWifelyDuty. That's what I see happening.
He. Chose. Poorly.