It's really raining this morning, and I haven't taken the dogs for a walk, which is radical, for me. But after the hailstorm yesterday, I've become cautious. No more singing in the rain for me. That was a movie set, anyway. This is real life. Or something like it. I have to go out three times today and it's going to be a mess.
Tomorrow my husband and I are making a list of all the household chores that need doing. We probably need a hostage negotiator, but we'll see how it goes. We've never lived in a house anywhere near this long, and repairs and cleaning and organizing - usually done due to intense pressure from a realtor, is not coming. I suppose we could hire a person and pretend we're selling the house, but I don't think the fear and terror would be forthcoming. No, we have to buck up and face the music. And it ain't Whistle While You Work.
Why are we having this conversation? Because when I returned from my trip many disgusting things were in the refrigerator, on the counter and in the sink. There were no forks. The dog hair on the stairs is like a wall to wall carpet. My husband is not an initiator. He's a hiberator. He made tremendous progress on his puzzle, ate a great deal of fast food, and saw four episodes of Firefly without me. But he had no time to clean up. I think he knew I'd take care of it when I returned. And at first I did. I cleaned out the frig. I cleaned the countertops. I put toilet paper in the bathrooms. And then I said to myself: Why am I the only person keeping the house from disintegrating into a dump site? My husband only works three days a week, and is home four. I cook him dinner every night. I grocery shop. I buy all the household stuff. I am known and loved at the hardware store. Doing the laundry, which he did while I was gone, does not make the workload even.
I expect to get a lot of exercise this weekend, with my spouse, and feel rapturous when I can see through our windows again. I can't wait.
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