2 hours ago
Saturday, July 17, 2010
I think the dishwasher was full. I hope it was full. That is the only explaination for what greeted me.
And it has to be said - I didn't care enough to figure it out. I surveyed the disaster-area that was formerly a kitchen counter, walked over to the crockpot that was still on in the corner, ladled the meat sauce that had been cooking all day AND all night into jars, and staggered to bed.
The reason I didn't stay up and deal with it, besides the fact that I was beyond exhausted and far past the point of giving a shit, was that the other adult in the household is responsible for unloading the dishwasher. So I was DAMNED if I was going to do it.
The division of labor in our house goes something like this:
Me: "I don't want to do it, so that's your job."
Him: "But I don't want to do it either."
Me: "Gee, that's too bad. I would make it worth your while."
(Long stare. Pointed glances.)
Him: "I'll get right on that."
So he ends up putting away stuff that I have cleaned. It works out well - I clean stuff during the day while he is at work, even the really gross and yucky stuff like the (gag) toilet, and then when he gets home, there is all sorts of clean stuff to put away.
Isn't that wonderful? I think so too. He's pretty much my hero, and the sole reason why our marriage is as long and strong as it is. We all know this. I am very devoted, but him? He's a fucking saint. Saint Sam. Prayer cards coming soon. I might even make a dashboard bobble doll. But in all seriousness, we have figured out a way to get stuff done around here, with a minimum of drama. Which is really saying something.
There are two reasons why things work the way that they do.
First, I am a bitch of the first order, no doubt about that. So when he loads the dishwasher wrong - and yes, there IS such a thing as loading it wrong - I get all huffy and have to dramatically unload and reload and fit about 20 extra things in there before slamming the door shut with a smug look. And don't even get me started on putting the toilet paper on the roll with the paper coming down against the wall. Nails on a fucking blackboard. So he kindly lets me take care of that shit, since it makes me so fucking crazy.
Second, I have the attention span of a flea. I bounce all over the place, from one thing to another. I am famous for running a load of laundry and then forgetting it in the washing machine for days. The bucket and mop from when I mopped the floor 3 days ago is still on the porch, filled with dirty water. Hm. I wonder why he hasn't taken care of that yet.
Sami's role in our relationship is to make sure that once things have been cleaned, that they actually get put away - so that I can clean more shit. I get absolutely no sense of accomplishment from putting everything back in it's proper place. It can take me months to hang clothes up in my closet. Our bed is never made. Shoes are scattered all over the house. I would sooner hand wash all the dishes than unload the dishwasher. That bucket and mop are going to stay outside until someone is coming over to visit.
Unless, of course, Sami puts it away. THAT would be awesome. And for what it's worth, I would totally make it worth his while.
Posted by Daffodil Campbell at 11:31 AM