It is 7:50 pm and my husband is cleaning blueberry pie off his hands, and pants. Why, you ask is he doing that? Because...It smeared.
It began awhile ago. He's been an ass all weekend. Hell, he's been an ass for 14 of the past 21 years, but, who's keeping score, besides me and the lawyer. Anyhow, I bought pies to snack on. An apple one and a blueberry one. Patrick and Tom both like blueberry, so that is why it has been sitting on the counter for two days.
I mentioned a little bit ago as I was cleaning up the dinner mess that there was blueberry pie. Tom snapped "it's cherry, not blueberry." I turned and said. "NO, it's blueberry" Tom stopped and nearly screamed at me "BLUEBERRY!!" I picked up the pie to just show him it was blueberry. Honest I did. But, then something in me snapped, maybe it was the way he was standing, maybe it was the permanent snarl planted on his face, maybe it is the fact that I am full of American Indian blood, mixed with pissed off Irish, I don't know. All I do know is that I threw it at him. It hit the garage can, it splashed all over his jeans, funny thing is that it pretty much just hit him. He looked shocked. When he wiped it off his pants and his hand came up blue. All I said was.... BLUEBERRY. And walked away.
I told him it was blueberry.