Tonight the husband decided to do battle with our dog Cody. By "do battle" I mean Cody was in his psychotic frenzied mood in which, if you even get in his general vicinity, he will freaking cut you. Seriously, his nails are like razor blades. You feel the slice, you look down but don't see anything. A few minutes later blood is dripping down your leg. When Cody gets in his frenzied psychotic mood, the husband likes to egg him on by lunging at him and pushing him as he jumps in the air.
Tonight's psychotic frenzy took place in the garage. "I'm anticipating some new scars," I said. Sure enough a few seconds later, the husband had blood dripping down his leg.
Of course, being a typical boy he did nothing about the blood and let it crust to his leg.
Then, as we were in the bathroom getting ready for bed, this happened:
Me: You need to clean that so you don't get flesh eating bacteria and they have to amputate your leg. I'm pretty sure I won't be with you any more if you have an amputated leg.
The husband grabs a towel and walks to the sink.
Me: No! Don't use a towel!
The husband: Well then how am I supposed to clean it?
Me, pointing to the shower: Get in there and use soap and water and clean it.
The husband gets in the shower and I start brushing my teeth.
Me: Are you using soap?
The husband: Yes, mom.
Me: What soap?
The husband holds up the bar soap.
Me: Oh, the soap that's been sitting on the shower floor?
Something happens next that I cannot reveal, but let's just say that it is typical boy behavior.
Me: What is wrong with you? This is so going on my blog.
More stuff happens that makes the husband say: You're treating me like a child.
Me: Because you're...
The husband: What, I'm acting like one?
Me: Blood is dripping down your leg.
The husband reaches for a towel again.
Me: No! I don't want blood all over the towel. And that one's not even clean. Do what you do when you cut your face shaving and stick toilet paper to it.
The husband does as I say then walks out of the bathroom with the bloody tissue.
Me: Where are you going with that? Don't throw it in that trashcan or the dogs will get it out because there's blood on it.
The husband sits on the edge of the bed and begins dabbing at the blood: I wasn't finished. Jeez, you're so bossy.
Me: I'm sorry for caring about your bloody cut.
The husband: Cunt?