So, Mr. Wonderful is at my house a lot. Like, in the nighttimes and in the morningtimes. Shhh – don’t tell my mom.
It’s not because Casa de Cha Cha is so super deluxe or anything. It’s because shacking up with Foxie Doxie and Geriatric Poodle in tow is a ginormous pain in the ass. I need to buy a kennel to leave at Mr. Wonderful’s so that I don’t have to transport Geriatric Poodle’s 50-pound monstrosity.
(I know, I know – he’s an elderly 11-pound dog. I know he doesn’t need the reinforced steel cage that can withstand attack by a pit bull. It was free. Give me a break.)
So, I have company pretty much all the time. Because I am sick and in love like that. Because we cannot stand to be apart, even for one night.
Yeah, we disgust me, too.
This means that I feel a weird pressure to be the hostess with the mostest like, all the damn time. This is a self-imposed pressure; Mr. Wonderful empties the dishwasher and offers to clean the bathroom. These make me think, “Pshaw! Darling, rest your weary self here on my dog hair-encrusted sofa. I shall take care of you!”
Let me recap: he’s there every damn night. Meaning this hideous, June Cleaver on Crack personality flaw is working overtime.
I’ve started getting snappish.
He asks for a new towel and I scowl. I notice dust bunnies and feel a deep sense of shame, even though Mr. Wonderful honestly doesn’t give a shit.
Once upon a time, in a relationship far, far away, I was The World’s Most Disgraceful Housekeeper. I could clean for an entire weekend – like, really clean til I was high on Pine-Sol – and my efforts would be greeted with an offhand comment like, “This place is a pit. I’m going to have to take a vacation day to clean.”
Evidently, I have completely internalized this dialogue. I expect to be inadequate. I expect to be reprimanded. And damn it, Mr. Wonderful is totally not living up to expectations.
So it’s making me June Cleaver on Crack. It’s making me feel slightly uneasy whenever I’m in my house. And yet, it’s making me appreciate Mr. Wonderful all the more.
We talked about June Cleaver on Crack and how I feel like my hair is on fire. And he offered – again – to clean the bathroom. Which is kind and yet horribly embarrassing – I should have my shit together and be able to keep a clean house. I shouldn’t feel like it’s a personal failure if I don’t switch out the towels every three days. I need to truly acknowledge the insanity of my internal dialogue.
It’s sort of like head lice. Sometimes you move on, not realizing that you did, in fact, bring a little pesky baggage.
We get clean towels once a week. On Sundays. On the day of so-called rest. The day that the laundry's done (not that we don't have more than one set of towels, mind you). But because there's no other time during the week because we're all so damn busy running here and there and everywhere else.
ReplyDeleteAnd cleaning the house? Highly overated. If I get it done once a month I feel great! Sure, I watch the dog hair pile up in the corner, and every once in a while I pick it up as I walk by.
But I don't think that you'll die wishing you would have cleaned more. By gones.