... when you realize your husband hates you. Or that he's crazy. Take your pick. I'm having a moment.

Y'al remember the post about how his plan to manage his stress involves making me nuts? Well. He's been stressed this weekend. Really really stressed.

A few weeks ago, my computer ... died. (Leave it at that). He could fix it, techinically. But that would take some time and money and I'm getting a new computer when we move ... SO ... he partitioned his computer. Life should now be all sunshine and daisies, right? RIGHT?

Not hardly. When I turn on the computer, there's a screen that lets you choose your partition and type in your password. Since he set up the partitions, he chose my password and the icon next to my partition-name. The icon is a symbol for a password I use sometimes. I thought THAT was my password, which would have made total sense! But, no.

If I click on the "hint" button I get a cryptic word that relates to a bible-verse. Ok, so THAT is the password. I type it in. I type it in varying formats since the password-box is case-sensitive. Nothing. I have to call him. Yes, I call him at work. We have a calm but thorough conversation about what the password could have been, would have been, SHOULD have been. Turns out he misremembered the numbers, and inverted them. BUT, regardless, I then knew my password. JOY!

So, this morning I grabbed a few minutes to check my email. I turn on the computer. I see the password-box. I type in my password (the mangled inverted verse) and ... nothing. I try again, full aware that even the best typers make mistakes. Nothing. I try again, getting a horrible vision of me crashing his hard-drive. Nothing. I break out in a cold-sweat. I reach for the phone. I put down the phone. I stare at the screen. At the happy glowing icon of my favorite password. I type it in. Slowly.

I'm going gray. Its all his fault.