[PD and I performing outdoor chores and general yard maintenance, happily. At first.]
PD: That doesn’t make much sense, one glove on and one off.
Me: Why must you criticize every little thing I do?
PD: You’re talking out your ass…
I continue pulling dead stalks out from the hydrangea bushes.
PD: Why don’t you get the loppers?
Me, much less happily by now: I wouldn’t want to do anything Right.
PD: Why don’t you just go in the house, I know you don’t feel good. No need to take it out on me.
Me: (speechless as in, where the hell did that come from???)
Just aboot two minutes later…
PD: I’m sorry, (insert pet nickname here)
Me: It just feels like you’re picking on me.
PD: What are you talking about?
I repeat the glove comment. PD shakes head, acting as if I made it up. I decide to keep my mouth shut for the duration…
PD: Here. Take care of your garbage.
[He hands me the empty flower bulb box, which I begin to rip into pieces so that it will fit manageably into the trash can.]
PD: What are you doing? Just throw it in there.
Me: I thought I would make this easier for you.
PD: Just throw it in the bag.
My head exploded just then.