The granola bar martyr

And now let me introduce you to the bane of my existence: granola bars. These are yummy, chewy, happy granola bars that are cheap and are only 2 points for those doing Weight Watchers. Every week, dh buys a big box of them. And every week, he bitches about the fact that I eat them all and he doesn't get any. Yet every week, he doesn't EVEN TRY TO EAT ANY. WTF? I grabbed two after we went food shopping last week. That prompted the damn passive aggressive sigh. It was lunch time, I hadn't eaten, and we still had to sit there and wait for the kids to get out of Sunday school. Shut up. Sit down. And give me my freaking granola bars!

The other day, he reached in for a granola bar (which is a shock because he never does until the day before we go shopping). He saw there were only 2 left and declared (with a heavy sigh), that he wasn't going to have one because there were only two left. I told him to eat one. He didn't. I then told him he doesn't get to play that game. You can't bitch just to bitch. You can't bitch when there aren't any and then bitch when there are. None left? "Oh woe is me, by the time I got there, you had eaten them all and there was nothing left for me." A few left? "There were only two left, so I couldn't have any. Doesn't matter that you told me to have one. I can't play the freaking martyr if I actually eat a granola bar. So I'll just stand here and whine instead." My husband, the granola bar martyr.

This is getting really old. I've taken to hiding when I eat the damn granola bars because I don't want to hear it. That pisses me off because I'm an adult. I shouldn't have to hide to eat my own damn food.

Oy. I'm just not in a good mood lately (more on that later) and this shit is pissing me off big time. Keep it up. Let's see how granola bars work as projectiles.