lil and the horrible terrible no good rotten mood

Do you ever think about something you did or said, and wonder how the hell your owner puts up with you?
Oh...Just me? Okay.

Sometimes I look back, (thinking hours here, not long term reflection--no need to give myself panic attacks) and wonder how I could possibly be such a shit and have him continue to put up with me.
Of course, "Put up with" is a relative and individually interpreted term...

The washer had decided that not only would it not complete the spin cycle, it would protest rinsing. So I was storming running around, wringing out laundry and kicking the washer (like you would never kick a stubborn appliance. Pft).

I was really just in a foul mood with life. The kids were making me wonder why humans don't eat their young, my hormones were trying to kill anything within throwing range, I was altogether irritating irritable with existence, and the laundry was that final layer of icing on the cake.

So what did he do? After informing me that my attitude was nowhere near acceptable, he single-handedly wrestled my evil poor washer into the back of his truck, (my presence was token--if it falls on you, I might be able to help get it off) took it to a repair guy, and paid to learn that the repair price would be slightly less than the cost of a new machine.

Then he came home and took irritable me and my eatable children out for the evening.

As I was getting ready and waiting for him to get back, I had this terribly painful moment of remorse...
I mean, I think that I might kill me if I had to live with me. But not only doesn't he kill me, he's actually quite in love with me (I always said that love was a strange beast).

The thing is, I wish I could catch myself in the moment. That first moment when I start to sour, before there's even a need for remorse.
He usually steps on my attitude the instant it starts to stray, but she's a squirmy little bitch, and can be difficult to pin down.

He's picking up the new washer today.
I'm making cream of broccoli/bacon soup with Caesar salad and probably an apology desert--I'm thinking brownies or coconut cream pie...
It works out.

Fluctuation Spaces and Other Critters

 I would like to thank Little Monkey for kindly returning my lost and tattered sense of humor--I'm keeping it chained nearby and well plied with caffeine.

Uh huh--really, really was!

 Sometimes I get a bit lost. It usually happens when his standing still coincides with other events that stress me out. So I run around in circles until something gives.

This running around in circles bit tends to bring the brat out in full force.

Now, sassing is a part of our lives--don't say I told, but he's admitted that he would probably get a bit bored  if I had no sass.
But sassing always ends with sweet compliance. It's a little nudge of fun that earns me a swat, a grab, a threat that is as delicious as it is meant to be, a laugh, or all three.

Bratting is quite a bit different. Truthfully, neither of us likes the brat, and if I could throw her out in the snow and slam the door once and for all, I would.

Sometimes the brat is screaming for more control, sometimes she genuinely wants to do whatever the hell she wants, whenever the hell she wants to.
It's always one extreme or the other, (should that be "Another?").

It becomes like the "Great reign of dissatisfaction".

Sometimes I know exactly what I need--usually it's a tightening up of our dynamic--more expression of it.

He comes to an understanding and helps me out.

And sometimes?
Well, hell if I know. Though I would hazard a guess that my hormones are out to sabotage me more often than I would like.

There is a...Fluctuation place.
He lets me have that space to fluctuate when my hormones are out to get me, when things change, when I'm really stressed.
I need it badly, and I am deeply grateful for it.
But getting back out of that fluctuation space can be tricky. And too much fluctuation is when the brat is likely to enter in all her glory. batty little bitch that she is...

Occasionally, that way back is to send the brat packing in tears, and lock the house up tight so that she can't sneak back in (Okay, so lock me up tight is always part of the solution, eventually).

If someone ever gives out that "Submissive of the Year" award, I think that they should be shunned (obviously the results are the same for me either way lol).