Sunday morning Brett and I had a fight.

Actually, when I say we ‘fight’ it usually means one of us says, “Why don’t you just get the fuck away from me for awhile,” followed by many hours of silence, followed by our usual giggling silliness.

This fight, however, was my fault. I tried really hard to make it not be my fault, but it just was. I was being petty, selfish, mean, and childish. All at once. So I apologized (to Brett’s back) and when I didn’t get a response I left the room.

Brett proceded to sleep much of the day. He slept in bed until noon, and then he took a nap on the couch a few hours later. I guess he was really tired.

I was pissed off at myself, so I attacked some housework with a vengeance. I hate housework. It’s much easier to do when you’re angry or depressed. I’ve often suspected that an antiseptically clean house is a sign of a bad marriage.

Brett didn’t talk to me until he’d been up for several hours. He sure knows how to make a girl sad.

By the end of the day we were fine again, and we didn’t go to bed mad. Not that I like fighting with him, but at least we do sometimes! It means we’re normal, I think.