So, I tried to be a good boyfriend yesterday.
I took the laundry to do it, because I knew Robb wouldn't be getting home until after 7, and he wouldn't want to go do it then. Since he's coming home late every day this week because of physical therapy, I thought it would be nice.
So I did that with no incident. Washed, dried, folded. And, of course, it was raining when I finished. It eatiher rains or snows EVERY TIME we do the laundry. I wish I were exaggerating here, but it's true. It's the strangest thing.
Anywho, then he calls me and I told him I did the laundry. And we decided I could put a pizza in the oven before he got home so that dinner could be ready when he arrived. I was being a good boyfriend. And if you know me, you know I don't really cook much. I just can't multitask in the kitchen, with the candlestick. What? Oh, right...
So, I burned the pizza, EVEN THOUGH I put it in for LESS than the time the box called for.
Now I felt like an idiot for not even being able to cook a frozen pizza right. Even with instructions on the box. Fail.
And then I got mad, because apparently I have the emotional range of a nine-years-old boy. I just felt ashamed that even when I tried really hard to do things right, they still suck. So I threw an oven mitt at the counter. Now, Robb hates it when I throw things...and I'm a thrower. I always have been (just ask my mother's collection of stuff-that-isn't-quite-whole-anymore...). It's where I go when I'm angry, and it makes me feel better.
It's not right, but it's who I am.
So then he was mad. And now it doens't matter if I'd carved Lincoln's face on Mt. Rushmore into a likeness of the boy, I still felt like a failure as a good boyfriend. Ugh.
And the mood persisted all night. Ruined.
Sometimes, even when I try really, really hard to be a good boyfriend, I fail. Fabulously.