5. Let your slovenly ways engulf your home in clutter and grime.
What really pushes my buttons are the bad household habits my husband can't seem to break. For example, he has an uncanny knack for shaving a week's worth of hair off his face within one hour of my scrubbing our bathroom sink. Even though he wipes down the sink when he's done, he never gets everything, and I end up with stray stubble floating in my water glass when I brush my teeth. He's also blind to the fact that we have a towel rack attached to our shower door; he much prefers to drape his wet towels over the top of our bedroom door, despite my repeated reminders that I never dust up there. Finally, I'll never understand why he can remove every condiment from our fridge when he's foraging for a snack, but can't manage to put a single thing away when he's done. Unfortunately, I haven't yet found a successful method for dealing with this misbehavior—I nag and plead with him all the time, but my cries for help fall on deaf ears. It's a good thing he's so wonderful in other ways—otherwise, I'd already have him living in a cave out back.
6. Try to help her out... only to make things worse.
My husband pushes my buttons when he helps around the house. Don't get me wrong; I can definitely use the help! BUT he always, somehow, does chores and errands that don't need to be done or that I normally handle. For example, last week he decided to do the laundry. This normally falls under my list of responsibilities, for a reason. All of my beautiful white sheets turned Pink! OR he'll do something completely unnecessary like rearrange my book shelves. The absolute worst is when he walks around the house re-decorating! He'll hide things he doesn't like (a picture frame) or decide we need to replace all of the throw pillows.
7. Accuse her of being melodramatic when it comes to her health.
My husband Leo is pretty great. More than anything, I push his buttons—and instead of pushing back, he totally calms me down. He is the Superman of Calm. But the one thing he doesn't do is clean our cat's litter, which in a small NYC apartment like ours needs to be done almost every day in order to keep it stank-free. Of course, he says he cleans it often, but I've purposefully not cleaned it and, lo and behold, five days later the living room reeks and the litter box looks like a sculpture of the Grand Canyon, with turd hills and urine valleys. I've just given up, since he's so great about everything else. But I told him when we get pregnant, I'll have my revenge, since I won't be able to touch the thing for nine months. Leo actually thought I was making up "toxoplasmosis." Thank goodness for Wikipedia!
– Danielle, 31, married two years, together for seven