skinnamarinky dinky dink skinnamarinky doo

Inky is almost done, he'll hopefully be done by tomorrow. He actually looks more like one of the Pac-Man ghosts after Pac-Man has eaten a power pellet, but that's the color of the Peace Fleece I had. It was a color made to protest the US invasion of Iraq. I like the way the Peace Fleece feels. The Man Who Lives in the House will hate it but since he's the one who wanted Inky in the first place and who will never wear Inky ever, he'll have to fucking deal with Peace Fleece.

He's working at home again today. I can never get him to leave. He does this to "spend time with me." How can I spend time with him? I'm working here! He complains because my clock ticks. He doesn't like ticking clocks. He complains because I'm playing music, and he doesn't like what I'm playing. He complains because I am not taking a long enough lunch break to suit him. He complains because he didn't think to charge his phone last night, and now his phone is dead, and his boss is calling him, and I'm on the other line for a meeting. This is all somehow my fucking fault. This is seriously inhibiting my ability to work. Pretty soon I am just going to trudge over to Trixie's house and start working there everyday. At least we work for the same company and we contract to the same agency. She wouldn't tell me I work for the "clown posse" and that my job is unimportant and that all I do is waste my time.

Is getting support from one's spouse for a job one loves too much to ask? If I worked washing dishes in a restaurant and I loved it, I would expect an equal level of support as I would here. I somehow think I would actually get more respect from him if I were a dishwasher.