Our first fight.

You know this is why you are reading. The drama. The twist to your oreo cookie.

Here goes...

Two months ago, I moved into a new apartment. With a lease term that was over five months before the wedding, we decided to go ahead and move me into a two bedroom apartment that we could live in until we are ready to buy a home. Neither of us are fond of moving, and we would soon find out why. (Read: We both suck at it.)

For me, although future Dh is disabled, he is very strong other than his lame leg, so I was very happy to have obligatory male help to move.

When you are a single woman who has moved roughly 4,388 times since moving out of my childhood home, moving is just a terrible thing. I learned a while back to just hire movers to move the big stuff and boxes. The problem that I'm finally willing to admit is this: I am incapable of packing for a move properly. In some ways, I'm very capable of organizing. With moving, I just can't do it. My "stuff that I'll just throw in a box when I clean after the movers leave" is always horribly underrated. Between this fact and future Dh not really being an expert at fully utilizing the available space in a Nissan Versa, this amounted to roughly 15 carloads of "stuff I'll throw in a box after the movers leave" that we moved ourselves.

I'm bad at moving. And painting. You should not ask me to help you. (Unless you want paint footprints on your floor and roller marks on your ceiling. Call me. I have a gift.)

So future Dh is really a good natured fellow. He smiled thru the pain in his lame leg and continuously told me how much he loved me, wouldn't let me carry heavy stuff, etc.

We were so tired when we decided to unpack some boxes in the kitchen.

(Cue suspense music)

When future Dh suggested that we put the pots and pans in the lower cabinets in the kitchen, we had a problem. You see, I have a really bad back that much of the time renders me unable to bend over, so I always put most of my most used dishes in high cabinets that I don't have to bend to get to.

I said: I need them where I can reach them when my back hurts.

He thought: Why would you be cooking when I can cook when your back hurts.

He said: You don't need to do that anymore.

I heard: I don't care if it hurts you.

Chaos ensues.

I have never been good at expressing myself in anger. Usually I cry before I can embarrass myself. Usually.

Not this time.

Future Dh stood in disbelief as the woman he loved...

You aren't ready. I can tell you aren't ready. Maybe I should end this post now.

Ok. I'll keep going.

I began to unravel as a human being.

At 36 years old, I began to throw a fit that would have shamed a two year old. I flung a pot lid at him and jumped up and down and squealed thru gritted teeth with eyes ablaze.

He stopped cold in his tracks, horrified... and probably instantly wondered if he really wanted to get married. Where the woman he loved once stood, stood a beast. An out of control fire pit of estrogen threatening to suck out his eyeballs.

He stood there stunned for a moment. Then he gently reached up and wrapped his giant hands around my flailing arms and pulled them down he leaned down to my face and said in a controlled, quiet tone.

"Do not throw things."

Instant shame. I then slipped into a crack in the floor and hid for the rest of my life, where I still hide to this day.

End of blog.

Nah... But it is the end of that story. And then we finished moving and I behaved. We're still getting married. Yay!