I hate tax season, not just because I have to pay the government, but because I have to listen to my husband ask “What were you thinking when you….?” “Why didn’t you….?” “Why did you….?” It doesn’t help that his questions are usually correct in that I mis-categorized something, or lost track of something, or committed some other reasonably careless financial error. As I point out to him every year, the fact that he voiced precisely the same harangues in the preceding year (16 times and counting), doesn’t seem to have changed my basic approach to these issues.
And I always hasten to add that he can’t take the moral high ground regarding my nonexistent learning curve, at least not as far as I’m concerned, because this is a man who boasts proudly of the fact that he doesn’t know how to operate any household appliances, and rather aggressively refuses to gain any mastery over all the household and parenting tasks for which I’m responsible. As I’ve blogged before, some of us don’t seem suited to wearing hats for both Ward and June Cleaver. In other words, the old song was wrong. Apparently I can’t both bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan. (Although that last is not really true, I do both, and do both quite well. It’s just that I can’t do either perfectly.)