CPT the ongoing battle..

SO yesterday was – interesting.

Back story-

In my about section I talk about wanting to disprove some of the stereotypes that black women encounter.  The one I have the most difficulty fixing is CPT. Why? Well silly internets, cause I’m ALWAYS LATE. I used to be pretty good about being on time, and calling if I was gonna be more than five minutes late, my job facilitates these kinds of responses in its peons, they drill it into you during training. So I hate being late. I really do. Since having kids, my take on tardiness has evolved. If I can arrive some where clean in one piece, with all necessary (necessary mind you -not intended) pieces for survival with me, I’m feelin pretty good. If I have everything I wanted to have and forgot nothing I’m buying a powerball ticket on the way home, and will probably win, its that rare.

So keep that in mind as we continue to the actual story.

A friend contacted me and was like come be a part of this thing. I can’t be more specific than that – sorry internets. So anyway – I’m like SURE!!! I got time to kill – so I take a four hour vacation slot at work,  and I tell Jerry, “hey sweetie I’m gonna do this thing tomorrow, will you pick me up so I can go?”

            “What time?” he asks.

            “Noon, I’ll take you back and then go – I need to be there around 12:30.”

            “Oh okay, sure.”

My darling husband then proceeds to ask me on two additional occasions, cause he wants to talk to you about anything you show any enthusiasm about. So he clarifies twice more, including when he drops me off before work.you see where this is going don’t you?

Wait for it internets.

Then promptly forgets me. Like not I forgot I’m ten minutes late. No more like.

            “Hey, Jerry where are you?”

            “Oh, I’m grabbin a sandwich for lunch.”

            “Um, I was supposed to be somewhere an hour ago, remember? You were supposed to come get me?”

            “OH CRAP, I totally forgot!!”

just what your loving wife wants to hear.

And then he doesn’t even have the nerve to just let me be mad at him, he’s so mad at himself for doing it, that it takes all the steam out of my “I get to be mad” moment. You know how somebody is so mad at them selves that you can’t be mad at them too – they are doing a good enough job of it that it would be counter productive for you to chime in with your own frustration. NOOO! You get to try to get them to not be so hard on themselves. Cause no matter how mad you were you weren’t gonna be this hard on them. I really wasn’t.  He isn’t that guy who forgets you and leaves you waiting on the street. He just isn’t so While I was peeved that I didn’t get to participate – I have to assume it just wasn’t meant to be, and be glad, I guess, I didn’t marry a jerk who gives me the ammo to be mad and doesn’t give a crap if I am.