Hurricane Mark
So we're trying to figure out what to have for lunch when I notice that Buddy, the latest foster dog, is chewing on something under the kitchen table. Because I am an EXPERT at this, I immediately know that he is not chewing on a dog toy.
I shoo him away and find the cut-off end of one of those infuriating molded plastic packages that make new purchases so very difficult to access. The rest of the package, empty of its treasure, is on the kitchen table and has been since yesterday.
I leave the end of the package on the floor. Am I being passive-aggressive? I don't know. When Mark re-enters the kitchen, I ask him to put his trash from the previous day in the recycling. I ask nicely, but even by voicing the request, the overtones of an oft-repeated-in-many-different-moods conversation are present. This is one of our 'things' that we have fightscussions about. We don't have many of these 'things', and the ones we do have are not bad, and this is one of them.
By this point in time, the kitten has found the plastic end of the package and scooted off into the living room with it. Mark follows her out to get it, returns, and makes funny faces at me until he feels that I am happy again.
I contemplate my role in this household, and wonder whether it would be better to be a silent maid or a nagging equal. I work less hours than him; should I just clean this crap up? On the other hand, I'm neater than him; why should his messes be my responsibility?
I ask him if there's any way I can get him to stop dropping things all over the house mid-stride. He ponders this for a moment but has no solution.
We make our lunches - a bagel for me and a sandwich for him. He takes the last sub bun from the bag and fills it with all sorts of fun vegetables. The empty bag remains on the counter.
We eat lunch, and because there is a client emergency this weekend, Mark goes upstairs to work for a while. The empty bag remains on the counter.
I rip up our bathroom floor for a while. I go back into the kitchen. The empty bag is staring at me.
I put it in the recycling.
9 comments:
My heart goes out to you. I'd be tortured by just such a turn of events. There is no winning, only crying, and later: tolerance.
Live Chef=Ellen Glek
It's fightscussions like this that associate near-nervous-breakdown emotions with the thought of cleaning.
How is poor Mark supposed to clean up after himself if the thought of past incidents makes him assume the fetal position and cry? (once he is done crying he goes to the bathroom to clean self up, likely leaves random trash around)
Mother-in-law says that such trivial things should not put a black mark on poor Mark's name.You should have filled that plastic bag with chocolate for him!!
Oh my god mom, seriously? Should have filled the bag with chocolate? What era are you from?
"Disgusted" is not Julie.
This is actually a disease Julie, and when you become an accepting and loving wife of eight years you will realise that it is futile to bother trying to understand or change them. It is called mental retardation and sadly 9 out of 10 husbands and partners are affected. Your own sanity is not worth it, just keep 'er clean!
I say, let the trash pile up. It will open-up interesting conversation with visitors to your home, and keep from your home from feeling too "sterile". Plus, no fighting! :)
I am the "Mark" in my household. I say just keep cleaning up after him. ;)
Although once in a while let him know it gets to you so hopefully he will make some kind of an effort to get his shit together. Works for me anyway...for a while.
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