I am stressed. I am angry. I am full of rage, and I have no outlet other than crying. I refuse to cry, however, because then I feel weak, and I shouldn't feel weak because I know I'm not, but it's going to take time to prove it.
Mr. Waffle has a job interview tomorrow afternoon. It sounds like a great opportunity, but it would require moving to a town of just over 4,000, and would be four hours away from where we currently live. Mr. Waffle's work history is spotty at best, and he's convinced we're going to pick up and move. To Iowa. I. O. WA. The land of "Oh hey, look, another corn field." Home of "We have some cows here, that's about it." The nearest city would still be about an hour away. The closest Trader Joe's is clear across the state next door.
(<—Actual pic of the entire state)
He had the phone interview and decided he wanted to do the in-person interview because, "Hey, it'll still make for a fun roadtrip!" He had no interview clothes, so we spent the last couple evenings shopping, during which he acted like a petulant child, and then didn't even wash the new clothes we bought. Then we went to book a hotel room. He chose one an hour and a half from here, because "well, there's nothing near where the interview is, and I've booked this one already."
I hate that he asks me for help, then gets angry and mean while I'm helping him—nay, bending over backwards for him—and after it's all over I'll go back to being the best wife ever, so wonderful and sweet and thoughtful. But for now, I should expect to quit the best-paying job either of us has ever had, and move to The Literal Middle of Nowhere for a job he may well quit in a few months, if it's even offered to him.
Is there a patron saint of Surviving Road Trips? I'm not religious, but I may need to start praying to someone just to keep my sanity intact.