Frustration today (and yesterday, and times before then...) as Steve does not apparently think having Max in his box for 11 hours straight is any big deal. I'm temporarily working 9 am - 9 p.m. on Mondays so have asked Steve to come straight home from work and take care of him. Not such a big deal, one would think. I also asked him to come straight home last night as I had to go up to the council offices to be videotaped for Silver Beaver. He didn't come home until 7:30 p.m., which meant Max was in his box for 11 hours. That's way too long. Max can stand up and move around, but still... And when I told him how I felt about that, he tried to flip it around, saying that Max was fine, and that he had to do his errands and take care of his dad.

Max is not like his motorcycles. He can't leave him in the garage and take him out to play just when he feels like it. Max is a living creature, and Steve has assumed a whole lot in this whole process. I take care of Max probably 80% of the time, and I'm not the one who decided to get him. I love the little fella dearly now, but whose dog is he supposed to be?

There. Frustration released, to a point. It does me no good to tell Steve in person because he'll always manage to flip things around so it sounds like I'M the one who is the guilty party, even though I'm just calmly telling him how I feel.

I wish things were better. I wish I had a husband instead of just a cranky roommate.