I have always. ALWAYS. Hated not having my own “mad money”.
I have always. ALWAYS. Had a little of my own “mad money”.
Until I married my husband.
Everything was ours. His paychecks. My child support. His child support (yes, he gets child support from the bio-mom).
But…ends weren’t being met. And there was never any extra for me to put aside. In case I got mad.
So I decided to take matters into my own hands and start working.
It’s nothing major. I work for my dad a few hours a week. But…I have my own stash. And I’m NOT telling him where it is!!
The thing that is pissing me off.
My husband. He is PISSED that I have my little job. That I’m making my piddly little amount of money…that will be affording me to get my hair cut/color/highlighted…PROFESSIONALLY, thankyouverymuch…on Thursday (yes, I’ll take pics!!).
This tiny drop of money afforded me to buy Uggs for my daughter, even though she decided she didn’t want them and so they were returned (YAY!!).
All I hear about is…YOU make the phone calls to the car dealerships (It looks as if I’m FINALLY getting a new car). YOU have more time than I do. Or…
YOU take care of this…or that…or the other thing…
Well…let me just say that…
NO honey. I don’t have more time than you do…because…
After you drop the kids off to middle school…you go to your job…which is teaching. You…have a prep hour. Instead of WASTING this prep hour working out in the gym…make the fricking phone calls because…inevitably, you won’t like how I took care of things anyways!!
Let me fill you in on how my daily schedule goes…HONEY.
6:45…wake up. Get daughter ready for her day. Get small brat ready for his day.
7:45…send daughter off to busstop. Fight with youngest to get ready for his day.
8:00…fight with youngest and throw him into his clothes…so he can be to preschool on time…which NEVER happens.
8:15…still fighting with youngest…only, about what to feed him.
And besides…NOTHING is open yet to get anything taken care of so…it’s OK to be fighting with my kids.
Then…4 days a week…I go to work. From 9:45 until 1 or 1:30.
Then…I have a MINUTE to go home. Maybe I might…I dunno…poop. Or maybe…EAT. Or…throw in a load of laundry and empty the dishwasher.
So…YOU won’t have to.
Then…I have to pick up YOUR youngest child…MY baby…
and race home for the kids that are coming home from middle school…and elementary school…
YOU come home.
So tell me…DARLING DEAREST…
how much more time do I have than you?
Yeah…I thought so.