My husband was in a really grumpy mood last night. I mean really grumpy. So grumpy, in fact, that I don’t believe we said a single word to each other for the three hours before bed.

Ah, life with a redhead!

I was napping when he got home from work, because I was having some anxiety and if I can get to sleep for a bit it takes the edge off. I woke when he got home, came downstairs, and we had our usual “How was your day?” conversation. He was cranky. He said he was hungry and that he needed cigarettes because I had stolen his pack the night before.

Stolen? We’re married, dude. I can’t steal your shit. Plus you TOOK the pack I’d stolen and left me the last few in your old pack this morning. “You always take my extra packs,” I said.

“Yeah, well, I had this one over here on purpose,” he said, indicating ‘his’ sidetable in the living room, implying that if they’d been communal smokes they’d have been in the usual place on top of the fridge, when we both know they never would have been because he’s never in his life bought extra cigarettes and left them on top of the fridge. “I knew I wasn’t going through Fairfield today to buy any,” he said. “So I put them here.”

(We smoke American Spirit cigarettes, and they’re not sold everywhere. There are three places in Fairfield to buy them, and one place in Ottumwa. Other than that, they’re hard to come by in rural Iowa.)

Ah. I see. So you can take my cigarettes at will, but I’m a bitch when I take yours.

Noting his shitty mood and bad vibe and trying to be flexible, I said that I could either cook or we could go to town for dinner since we were going for smokes anyway, and added that “if we went to town, we could go to the Dairy Bar for malts!”

Moments later he was on his phone in the driveway while I loaded the dogs into his truck. Then I got in myself, and he finished up his call and got in too. Less than a mile from the house, he complained, “I don’t know where the fuck you think we’re gonna eat, with two dogs in the truck and the windows won’t roll up.”

I smacked myself in the head, grinned, and said, “Oh shit, I’m sorry. I forgot. We’ll have to get drive-thru.”

“I don’t want to eat drive-thru,” he retorted.

Brett’s truck has electric windows, and the driver’s side window no longer rolls up. This is why electric windows suck.

“Did the other window stop working, too?” I asked.

“No!” he growled. “You think rolling one up will fucking help keep Meathead in the fucking truck?”

“No,” I replied icily. “I was just asking if both windows were broken.”

I turned to look out the window. The rest of the ride to town was silent. I did not point out that he’d watched me load the dogs into the truck, nor that we were so close to home at that point that he could just TURN THE TRUCK AROUND AND DROP THE DOGS OFF AT HOME.

In town, we stopped at Mi-T-Mart for gas and smokes. I gave Brett half the cash I had – money he’d given me several days earlier for the household and which I’d been hoarding – so he’d be able to buy lunch for the rest of the week.

Driving back down Burlington, I made another attempt and said, “I’m not that hungry. I’d be happy to sit in the truck while you went in to eat somewhere. I really wouldn’t mind.” This was something of a sacrifice on my part, because I knew I had nothing new to read on my PPC and would have to spend the time re-reading something I’d already read, but I was willing to do it.

Brett said, “Dairy Bar?” and pulled into its driveway and parked.

Digging through my purse, I asked, “Vanilla malt?”

“Yeah,” he said, attempting to sound decent. I think my honest offer to wait for him to eat had actually hit home.

So I stood in line with a bunch of appallingly young, healthy, athlete-type high school kids and was eventually able to purchase two large malts. They cost $4.98.

Returning to the truck, I handed Brett’s malt to him, and we were driving again. Neither of us said a word the whole way home. I went immediately to the kitchen and made him pork chops with onions, thyme, and garlic, and a fava bean salad with chopped tomatoes, peppers, feta, thyme, olive oil and red wine vinegar. I served him in the living room (he won’t eat at the table).

He ate. I finished my butterscotch malt.

I tried once or twice to comment on the show we were watching – some Discovery show about the technology of logging – but while he made eye contact when I spoke to him he didn’t bother to reply. Eventually I went outside to read and smoke a couple of cigarettes. He’d gone to bed by the time I came back in.

Here’s hoping he’s in a better mood tonight. Yesterday was his first day on a new job, and if he’s like this for the next six months I’ll have to poison his meatloaf.