So Jack is usually pretty awesome, but he does have these, um, quirks that make me ask his mother why she didn’t drown him at birth. Quirks like leaving the dishwasher door open after he loads it, as if to say, “See? See how I loaded it? Even though technically that’s part of your job description? Wow! I loaded it. That makes me pretty much a GOD! Because I loaded it.” (Sweet, Jack. Now howzabout running it?) Another endearing thing he does is wad up the still wet dish rag and leave it on the side of the sink. He’s been doing this for at least 14 years, and I, intrepid person that I am have been kindly reminding him that, wadded up and wet equals smell while wrung out and spread across the faucet to dry equals less smell, and we like less smell. Less smell is good. For 14 years I’ve been telling him this. Most of the kind I’m not even that condescending even though I have said it at least 152 times a year for 14 years.
I have it pretty good with him. Still sometimes? When he time travels back to the 1950’s and comes home expecting Mrs. Cunningham and a strong martini and a few minutes by himself in the tidy study with his feet up and his dog fetching his pipe? I want to punch him in the head. When he’s in this mode, like he was last night, he says things like, “I work hard all day.” Yep. I totally get and appreciate that. You do work hard. There’s no argument from me. However, when he says that the implication is that I don’t work as hard as he does, which any woman will tell him is bullshit. More often than not I’ll call him on it. Tonight was one of those times.
“… blah, blah, blah… I work hard,” he said.
“Tell me,” I said. “While you’re working do your employees take off their clothes and pee on the rug?”
“We’re not doing this,” he said. “All I’m saying was that it’d be nice to have a few minute’s of peace when I get home.”
“So when you’re driving home from the office – that entire 30 minutes you have people changing your radio station, and throwing food at you, and spilling their drinks?”
But I was just warming up. “Tell me, when you go out to a restaurant for lunch, does it embarrass you when your co-workers refuse to eat and fall off their chairs screaming until they get a balloon?”
“Now’s when you say, ‘I’m sorry Rosie.'”
“A clean kitchen isn’t too much to want,” he said, although weakly.
“Neither is a man servant. I think we should call him Dimitri.” Just then Amelia called down that Liv had painted her walls with poop. Again.
There was a moment of tacit negotiating. We mostly communicated with our eyes and eyebrows.
“I’m gonna load the dishwasher,” he said. Which left me on shit patrol. Which was fine. I’m pretty sure he was tired after changing diapers all day. You know, at the office. When will his co-workers get potty trained?! Still, he was doing some light house work, so I couldn’t complain. Until I returned from the 3rd circle of hell and saw that the kitchen was clean and the dishwasher was piled full, and left standing wide open.