Slugfest

My husband can be a real ass. 

Example #1 (I expect there to be a lot of these) 

I let the dogs out this morning and stuck my hand out in the dark to get their food dish.  I didn’t look at said dish until it registered in my coffee-less brain that my hand felt….slimy. 

Baby. Slugs. ON ME.

At this point everything gets a little blurry.  The dish is no longer in the house, so I can only assume I threw it.  My bathrobe is in the mudroom floor.  I remember ripping it off and sprinting into the kitchen while Gus looked on in awe.

He says he thinks I was gagging.  I really couldn’t say.  I do know that while I was scrubbing vigorously at my ick-infested hands, he inferred that there were slugs on my back.  At which point I very rapidly became naked and then equally rapidly became violent, once I realized he was a lying shit.

After I had calmed down to a state of shock, staring blankly and mourning my lost innocence, he asked me what I intended to do with my bathrobe.   But not that nicely.  Rather, he said something along the lines of: *snicker*snicker* SO. *cough* You just going to leave your shit laying there in the floor so the slugs can just wander off all over our house?”

I glared.

Gus is clearly not concerned about my safety, sanity, or my aversion to animated slime.

I told him that obviously the only logical thing to do would be to burn the robe.

He’s all, “I KNEW you would say that. It’s not a fucking vampire, Renee.  You don’t have to cut its head off, burn it, and bury it wrapped in chains.”

Hmmph.  I guess it’s just as well I didn’t tell him my whole  plan, which was to burn the robe and then the front porch.  This is war, motherfucker.  My perimeter has been breached.