Year 4 of relationship. It was a rough year.
“I’m resigning as wife.” I said and handed my sweetheart a sheet of paper with the WIFE responsibilities on it. Those would be the things he refuses to do because he’s a man and I’m a woman and those things are “Women’s work.”
Besides being a full-time employee, I juggled all the responsibilities of childcare, cooking, cleaning, cleaning up after The Dog (who shall remain nameless), cleaning up after my husband, in all of his idiosyncrasies, paying all the bills, making the doctors’ appointments and school meetings, grocery shopping, performing feats of home remodeling to include calking a bathroom, texturing walls, hanging mirrors, pictures, and sheet rock, painting, hammering, nailing, screwing, taping, bedding, scraping, moving, and the list goes on. And on. And on. Why can’t he patch the nail holes? Because we don’t have the right kind of patch. If there's one phrase that sums up my husband it's this: "If I can’t do it right, I can’t do it." Me, on the other hand, I'm more of a "git 'er done!" kinda gal. However it works, I'm cool with that.
One week, he dropped a dozen eggs on the floor and broke every one of them. The logical next step in any man’s mind is to call the dog. The dog happily lapped up the eggs, the promptly went to relieve herself with explosive diarrhea all over the kids’ rooms. Diarrhea that was destined to sit on the floor for the next five days until it was “dry enough” to vacuum up. Diarrhea that has since stained my carpet forever with a greenish black tone on the beige even AFTER steam cleaning.
Approximately 2 days later, she was still sick, and vomited on the carpet right outside my door. My entire house is tile except for a few square feet in the kids rooms and in my room and the hallway. She chooses these areas to shit and puke.
Aside from that, The Dog is a 65 pound high-strung Weimaraner. She barks at everything, including (but not limited to): children, grandmas, the post man, crickets, lizards, birds, ghosts, and squirrels.
She eats everything, too – but her preferred diet consists of what she can glean from the trash cans. On more than one occasion I have come home from work to find my used sanitary products in shreds on the floor, the majority devoured by this disgusting dog. Bring on the diarrhea.
She also loves bars of soap. You cannot leave a bar of soap unguarded, or she will get on the counter with her front paws and swallow the bar in two bites.
The Dog came with my sweetie, or I would have long since disposed of her. As it is, I tolerate her in small doses, banning her from my room and excusing her to the backyard every chance I get.
When I served my resignation as wife, my sweetie said nothing. We have had in the past conversations where I mention that "a little help around the house would be great" and he cites “women’s work” and "possession of a penis" as reasons he will not partake.
The mysterious thing about my sweetie is that, although he doesn't believe in doing the work, he DOES maintain very strong opinions about how the work should be done. For instance, leftovers should always be heated up in the oven or on the stove rather than in the microwave, because the microwave gives everyone cancer and there is no proof of anyone having cancer before microwaves.
For him, this means that his food is hot on his plate when he eats and he knows it has come out of a pan, almost as if it was cooked for the first time. For me, this means not only do I have to clean up a plastic container that was used to store the food in the fridge, but also whatever containers were used to reheat said food, AND the plate he ate it off of.
He refuses to eat off paper plates. He believes that paper plates are not only unhealthy, but they are slowly ruining the environment. I tried to plead the case that paper plates could be recycled, but he would hear nothing of it. It is glass plates or bust.
He recycles obsessively. On a typical day, I will get a pile of junk mail at my house. I throw it all in the trash. He digs it out of the trash and sorts it for recycling. Shiny paper is returned to the wastebasket. Newspaper (the BEST kind for recycling) along with paper letters and envelopes are put into the shredding/compost bin. Envelopes with plastic on them are disassembled, taking off the plastic (which goes in the trash) and placing the paper portion in the recycling/shredding for compost bin. None of this is given to the recycling company who comes by once a week to pick up recycling because he likes to save it up until he has 100 or 150 pounds, then go to my work and shred it all. Then, he brings back the shredded paper in a garbage bag, sets it in my garage for several weeks before I finally throw it all into the recycling bin for the city to pick up. This is our pattern.
He also recycles cardboard (every box must be broken down), plastic and glass. These he allows the city to pick up, except for a few “Special” items that he likes to hang onto. Primarily: Wine bottles (so he can someday make a chandelier out of them), glass spaghetti sauce containers (to use for storage of leftovers because glass is infinitely better than plastic for storage), and aluminum cans. He will save aluminum cans until he has enough cans to fill the back of his truck. He has a very big truck.
At one point, we lived in an apartment with no recycling service, and all of the recycling was saved in one of the closets. Did I mention that the apartment was tiny? He saved every piece of recycling until the closet was full. Completely full. It was a walk in closet. Slowly, I had to sneak out the recycling to the dumpster when he wasn't around. He didn't notice much.
Aluminum soda and beer cans are saved for as long as it takes to fill up the back of his truck. We currently have roughly500 1000 cans sitting in the garage awaiting their cohorts to be taken to aluminum recycling, where he can get money for them. Yay, money! I would imagine he gets about $25 for the whole load and I ask you this: is it really worth the marital conflict to get $25 for cans?
Note: I know it sounds like we are alcoholics with 1000 beer cans in our garage, but, really, he has only recycled the cans one time in the past 6 years, so this is years and years worth of cans.
He insists on urinating in the backyard. Moreover, he insists that his urine kills “bad” grass and makes “good” grass grow. The good grass is Bermuda, which he pronounces “burrmoooduh.” The bad grass is St. Augustine, which he pronounces “san-og-us-teen”. He does this when we have company, too. He continues the good grass bad grass commentary while he is urinating and our guests are listening to the water feature newly installed behind us in the person of my husband. He encourages our guests to urinate in the backyard as well. Generally, they decline. Sometimes, they agree.
He also likes to supervise the dish washing and laundry. Laundry must be done a certain way, according to specifications. The colors must be separated and each piece inspected for possible stains. Any stains must be pre-treated for no less than twenty-four hours before commencing washing. The washer must be operated at the lowest possible temperature and water level in order to conserve energy. Washing dishes must include scrubbing each dish before washing. Oddly, a dish that The Dog has eaten off of can go directly into the dishwasher, but a bowl that had cereal and milk (with no crusty residue) must be washed thoroughly to remove germs prior to washing in the dishwasher.
Each dish must be inspected carefully upon removal from the dishwasher to insure cleanliness of said dish. Cleaning, he tells me, is something my mother never taught me how to do correctly, and he feels the need to critique my cleaning almost every time I clean ANYTHING in front of him. Which is why I do my cleaning while he is distracted with video games.
The first few times he critiqued my cleaning, I blew up at him. I don’t take criticism well, as a rule, and criticism of my family is definitely not accepted gracefully. I told him that if he wanted it cleaned differently then he should get over here and clean it himself. At this juncture, he informed of The Penis Rule.
The Penis Rule is this: If you have a penis, you don’t have to clean, but a benevolent penis possessor should instruct those poor unfortunate souls without a penis on how to properly perform any and all tasks.
Now you know.
“I’m resigning as wife.” I said and handed my sweetheart a sheet of paper with the WIFE responsibilities on it. Those would be the things he refuses to do because he’s a man and I’m a woman and those things are “Women’s work.”
Besides being a full-time employee, I juggled all the responsibilities of childcare, cooking, cleaning, cleaning up after The Dog (who shall remain nameless), cleaning up after my husband, in all of his idiosyncrasies, paying all the bills, making the doctors’ appointments and school meetings, grocery shopping, performing feats of home remodeling to include calking a bathroom, texturing walls, hanging mirrors, pictures, and sheet rock, painting, hammering, nailing, screwing, taping, bedding, scraping, moving, and the list goes on. And on. And on. Why can’t he patch the nail holes? Because we don’t have the right kind of patch. If there's one phrase that sums up my husband it's this: "If I can’t do it right, I can’t do it." Me, on the other hand, I'm more of a "git 'er done!" kinda gal. However it works, I'm cool with that.
One week, he dropped a dozen eggs on the floor and broke every one of them. The logical next step in any man’s mind is to call the dog. The dog happily lapped up the eggs, the promptly went to relieve herself with explosive diarrhea all over the kids’ rooms. Diarrhea that was destined to sit on the floor for the next five days until it was “dry enough” to vacuum up. Diarrhea that has since stained my carpet forever with a greenish black tone on the beige even AFTER steam cleaning.
Approximately 2 days later, she was still sick, and vomited on the carpet right outside my door. My entire house is tile except for a few square feet in the kids rooms and in my room and the hallway. She chooses these areas to shit and puke.
 |
| This is a cute Weimaraner. Do not let that fool you. They are noxious beasts. |
She eats everything, too – but her preferred diet consists of what she can glean from the trash cans. On more than one occasion I have come home from work to find my used sanitary products in shreds on the floor, the majority devoured by this disgusting dog. Bring on the diarrhea.
She also loves bars of soap. You cannot leave a bar of soap unguarded, or she will get on the counter with her front paws and swallow the bar in two bites.
The Dog came with my sweetie, or I would have long since disposed of her. As it is, I tolerate her in small doses, banning her from my room and excusing her to the backyard every chance I get.
 |
| Those glowing eyes are the eyes of a demon. Note: Aren't the kids adorable? They were so little!! |
The mysterious thing about my sweetie is that, although he doesn't believe in doing the work, he DOES maintain very strong opinions about how the work should be done. For instance, leftovers should always be heated up in the oven or on the stove rather than in the microwave, because the microwave gives everyone cancer and there is no proof of anyone having cancer before microwaves.
For him, this means that his food is hot on his plate when he eats and he knows it has come out of a pan, almost as if it was cooked for the first time. For me, this means not only do I have to clean up a plastic container that was used to store the food in the fridge, but also whatever containers were used to reheat said food, AND the plate he ate it off of.
He refuses to eat off paper plates. He believes that paper plates are not only unhealthy, but they are slowly ruining the environment. I tried to plead the case that paper plates could be recycled, but he would hear nothing of it. It is glass plates or bust.
He recycles obsessively. On a typical day, I will get a pile of junk mail at my house. I throw it all in the trash. He digs it out of the trash and sorts it for recycling. Shiny paper is returned to the wastebasket. Newspaper (the BEST kind for recycling) along with paper letters and envelopes are put into the shredding/compost bin. Envelopes with plastic on them are disassembled, taking off the plastic (which goes in the trash) and placing the paper portion in the recycling/shredding for compost bin. None of this is given to the recycling company who comes by once a week to pick up recycling because he likes to save it up until he has 100 or 150 pounds, then go to my work and shred it all. Then, he brings back the shredded paper in a garbage bag, sets it in my garage for several weeks before I finally throw it all into the recycling bin for the city to pick up. This is our pattern.
He also recycles cardboard (every box must be broken down), plastic and glass. These he allows the city to pick up, except for a few “Special” items that he likes to hang onto. Primarily: Wine bottles (so he can someday make a chandelier out of them), glass spaghetti sauce containers (to use for storage of leftovers because glass is infinitely better than plastic for storage), and aluminum cans. He will save aluminum cans until he has enough cans to fill the back of his truck. He has a very big truck.
At one point, we lived in an apartment with no recycling service, and all of the recycling was saved in one of the closets. Did I mention that the apartment was tiny? He saved every piece of recycling until the closet was full. Completely full. It was a walk in closet. Slowly, I had to sneak out the recycling to the dumpster when he wasn't around. He didn't notice much.
Aluminum soda and beer cans are saved for as long as it takes to fill up the back of his truck. We currently have roughly
Note: I know it sounds like we are alcoholics with 1000 beer cans in our garage, but, really, he has only recycled the cans one time in the past 6 years, so this is years and years worth of cans.
He insists on urinating in the backyard. Moreover, he insists that his urine kills “bad” grass and makes “good” grass grow. The good grass is Bermuda, which he pronounces “burrmoooduh.” The bad grass is St. Augustine, which he pronounces “san-og-us-teen”. He does this when we have company, too. He continues the good grass bad grass commentary while he is urinating and our guests are listening to the water feature newly installed behind us in the person of my husband. He encourages our guests to urinate in the backyard as well. Generally, they decline. Sometimes, they agree.
He also likes to supervise the dish washing and laundry. Laundry must be done a certain way, according to specifications. The colors must be separated and each piece inspected for possible stains. Any stains must be pre-treated for no less than twenty-four hours before commencing washing. The washer must be operated at the lowest possible temperature and water level in order to conserve energy. Washing dishes must include scrubbing each dish before washing. Oddly, a dish that The Dog has eaten off of can go directly into the dishwasher, but a bowl that had cereal and milk (with no crusty residue) must be washed thoroughly to remove germs prior to washing in the dishwasher.
Each dish must be inspected carefully upon removal from the dishwasher to insure cleanliness of said dish. Cleaning, he tells me, is something my mother never taught me how to do correctly, and he feels the need to critique my cleaning almost every time I clean ANYTHING in front of him. Which is why I do my cleaning while he is distracted with video games.
The first few times he critiqued my cleaning, I blew up at him. I don’t take criticism well, as a rule, and criticism of my family is definitely not accepted gracefully. I told him that if he wanted it cleaned differently then he should get over here and clean it himself. At this juncture, he informed of The Penis Rule.
The Penis Rule is this: If you have a penis, you don’t have to clean, but a benevolent penis possessor should instruct those poor unfortunate souls without a penis on how to properly perform any and all tasks.
Now you know.
