...are the worst! The flipping baby went through the fastest plague anyone has ever seen. Hell for four days, malingering for another three. Husband-cat spent days away at a conference, worked from home for one day and then exploded into the worst two-day illness I've ever seen. Meanwhile, me, the babysitter, and Mother Magoo, danced around caring for Baby Flails-a-lot without turning into zombies shiny with snot. Sorry to be graphic, but this has been a shitty, shitty week. Doesn't help that Mother Magoo has bad knees, babysitter has bad hip and I have a bad back. Can't anyone I know be able-bodied?
On the plus side, we got all our life insurance paperwork. Since everyone in the house was pretty sure we were gonna die any minute, I found this very reassuring. Right up until Husband-cat started going on about how maybe we needed to research a different structure to our policies. And how the retirement paperwork (that HAS to be filed in the next two weeks) needs to be reviewed and possible alternatives investigated.
At this point fucking laser beams shot out of my eyes. You know how your partner has that one damn habit that makes you bonkers? Second guessing right before commitment is one of The Hub's. There is never enough research done, always more to think about. I blame his risk averse Midwestern upbringing. "Missouri: The Show Me State!" Oh, I've got things to show you...
I became a still calm center of rage in the face of his increasing protestations. I didn't even have to say anything, my thoughts screamed. "NOW?! RIGHT FUCKING NOW YOU NEED TO DO THIS?! Your chance to do any additional research passed you by three months ago! I've been setting this bullshit up for weeks. You had your chance. Sign. The. Fucking. Papers."
Or you won't need a goddamn life insurance policy.
It's like Chris Rock said: If you've never contemplated using rat poison on your partner's soup, you've never been in love.
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