I stood in the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed, glaring at the pile of dishes that had piled up in the sink. The same pile of dishes James had promised to do yesterday morning, yesterday afternoon, and before I went to bed. I’m normally perfectly okay with doing the dishes and cleaning around the house, but when James tells me he’s going to do them, I expect him to do them. Call it petty, call it something I shouldn’t get angry over, but a bitch feels what she has to feel.
There are two options here. I could go into the office, interrupt his game watching, and ask him to do them. Or I could do them myself and give him a well-deserved attitude until he makes it up to me. The latter seems more entertaining to me.
I sighed and walked over to the dishwasher, opening it to see it full of clean dishes that James had also neglected to put away. The steady boil in my stomach sped up to a raging boil, and I grabbed the silverware, almost throwing them into their proper places in the drawer. Now that my attention was on the silverware, I began to get even more agitated when I realized some of the big spoons were in the little spoon spots, and vice versa.