Don't Help Me!

The other day, I was packing for myself and the dog (who were going to Pennsylvania for a few days) and Tim (who was going on a business trip for a few days), doing laundry, ironing, and straightening up before the cleaning lady came on Monday, when Tim decided to help me.

I am sure the judge will rule in my favor with a verdict of justifiable homicide.

As I was rushing around upstairs, trying to get everything done, Tim was working and dogsitting downstairs. Or so I thought.  In actuality, he was trying to "help"me.

You see, we don't have a room in our house that we were able to "puppy proof" for our new little bundle of joy, but we do have a large space between the family room and kitchen where we've put a doggie "playpen".  It is essentially an eight-sided plastic pen that has "joints" where each panel meets.  When you unfold it from the box, you snap the joints until the pen resembles an octagon, then interlock the first and last pieces and ...ta da!...a safe place for the puppy when we go out.

For some reason that I will never understand even if I live to be 1000, Tim thought it would be a super idea to  move the playpen so the floor could be cleaned (Wow.  Gee, that has not occurred to me for the past nine Mondays that we've cleaned.).  And the best way to do that?  Unbend all the joints so that it resembles an amoeba, drag it across the floor to block the front hall, then bellow for help.  Oh, and if you can bow out the plastic sides, you get to participate in the bonus round for the big jackpot. 

"I don't know how to fold it up." He actually had the nerve to look offended by the poor, mangled piece of equipment.

Really?  No kidding.  Could have fooled me.  Enlighten me.  Why, exactly, were you messing with it at all?

"Well, how else can you clean the floor?"  he asked, clearly mistaking my narrowed eyes, crossed arms and tapping foot as  good signs.

"I know it's not as sophisticated as your method,"  I bit out as I waved him off and tried vainly to bend the recalcitrant plastic back to something, anything, resembling a known geometric shape, "but we each get on one side, pick it up and move it!"

"Oh.  I was just trying to help since you're so busy."  He attempted once more to return the to the scene of the crime. 

I may have actually growled and bared my teeth at that point or perhaps it could have been the karate chops and kicks I was executing on the playpen with unnecessary roughness, or maybe it was simply fear that the dog would get caught in the crossfire, but he wisely retreated back to his TV and chair with the dog in tow.

"Don't."  I panted as I threw my entire body weight against one particularly stubborn joint.

"Help."  I gritted out, wondering how cheap plastic could take on the properties of iron and steel.

"Me."  I finished, simultaneously pushing one side, pulling another, lifting a third and pressing down on a fourth.

I might have let him live if this had been his first offense, but it wasn't.  It was just his most recent.

A week or two ago, I was cooking dinner when he decided to "help" me. 

Just as I had the food, pots and pans lined up and ready to go, the dog informed me that she really, really, really had to go or her bladder would explode all over the kitchen.  I returned from our potty call, to find Tim happily cooking dinner in the wrong pans, which would not normally have been an issue except that the pan he had seared the fish in was not oven-proof and the fish was going in the oven.

"What's your problem?" he demanded when I snatched the pan from him.

"My problem?  Nothing, except that if we put that pan in the oven, I'm pretty sure that the non-metal parts will melt and/or burst into flame which will poison us and/or burn down the house.  Call me crazy, but I'd rather not have the jello they probably serve in the ER for dessert!"

"How was I supposed to know you were using the oven?" he tried to defend his actions by going on the offense, but when my eyes crossed and smoke poured from my ears, he wisely retreated.  Or so I thought.  In actuality, he was trying to "help" me again.

As I turned from him to finish our dinner, which now involved washing additional pans, thank you very much, he decided to take out the garbage, totally disregarding doctor's orders that he not lift anything while recuperating from back surgery.

"What are you doing?" I shrieked, trying to grab the bag from him.

"I'm trying to help," he shot back, tugging the bag away from me.

"Don't." I ground out as I struggled to win the bizarre tug-of-war we were involved in.

"Help." I could smell the vegetables burning as we tussled our way out the back door.

"Me."  I bellowed as the fish went from done to dry.

And that, your honor, is why I killed him.