Sackful of weasels

I don't know what my problem is, but I have been as irritable as a sackful of weasels all weekend. The relentlessly optimistic part of my brain is already chiming: "Hey! You're not usually like this! Maybe it's a sign that you are pregnant."

To which I snarl, "Shut up, brain." I don't think I'm pregnant. I think I am just extremely cranky. For no apparent reason.

Like most people, I am very bad company when I am in a grumpy mood. Unfortunately, I have been taking it out on poor E. who has been very patient with me. He doesn't deserve the brunt of my bitchiness, but really, if only he would put his fucking dishes in the fucking dishwasher, he would immediately eliminate about 60% of my daily snipe. Honestly, it drives me berserk, the constant ensemble of plates, dirty cups and spoons in or next to the sink. The fucking sink being directly next to the fucking dishwasher.

This is truly a long running irritant, but maybe because I am in a pissy mood, this weekend it has seemed worse than ever. For example, yesterday I had just finished emptying the dishwasher, and the tray was still pulled out when the phone rang. I went to answer it (wrong number), leaving the empty tray and the door open. By the time I came back, E. had managed to walk up to the counter, dump his breakfast dishes in the sink and walk back to the table. Readers, I proceeded to rip him a new one. I felt badly later, but my God. I can't tell you how many times I have begged, pleaded, cajoled, whimpered, nagged, promised blow jobs and the sacrifice of baby goats, if only he would do this one thing- Put. the. dishes. in. the. dishwasher. Please. Please. Pleeeeeeeease.

Neglect of the dishwasher aside, everything else has seemingly conspired to get on my nerves as well. The list is long and mundane. And, at the risk of annyoing you all with my endless ramblings about the scheduling of one measly test, I will tell you that I received a letter from the private hospital for my HSG appointment. Happy news, yes? Oh Yes. Except.

Except that they have scheduled it for the one and only day next month when I will be unavailable, and indeed, out of the country. Which means I will have to call up and try to get it rescheduled. Or else cancel E.'s birthday trip to Amsterdam. Consequently, I have been worrying about it all weekend. Now, I am sure I will be able to sort out something else, but it continues to make me fret, which I hate.

Lastly, I discovered, quite by accident, during an online search for something entirely unrelated to fertility, that my ex-husband and his new-ish wife have had a baby son. I felt like someone had punched me in the gut. I know I have absolutely no right to complain about anything the ex-husband may do. And if the fertility gods smile kindly on him, and not me, following the demise of our relationship, well, boo fucking hoo. But I confess it bothers me a little.

I mean, didn't he get the memo? The one that says he has to spend the rest of his life pining for me? Living in monk-like solitude burning candles by the shrine of his great love lost? Not getting on with things, finding a nice girl who was actually willing to have sex with him (whereas I was not), marry him and bear his children. Living happily ever after, with wife and son in harmonious bliss, while I flail desperately. The bloody cheek of him, how dare he. I suppose it shouldn't surprise me- he managed to irritate me intensely while we were married, and why ruin a perfectly good trend.

Now if you'll excuse me, I am going to go sulk in the corner with a petulant little scowly face.