Mood: slightly chirpy
Song stuck in my head right now: Do Right Woman/Do Right Man… Sarah Vaughn
Wearing: white pants (only 1 1/2 week short of Memorial Day), light pink shirt, white t-back undies, athletic shoes with white socks
Two days ago, Esteban and I had Dirty Dishes Fight #2601. We have this agreement… see, he does the dishes and I do the laundry and we split everything else. Then we realized that housework wasn’t so cut and dried, so it turned into: he does the dishes and the cat box, I do the laundry and the toilet, and we split everything else. Ok, so what ended up happening was that I would constantly be doing laundry on my own time. He would let the dishes pile up. When it came to Cleaning Day, he would start on the dishes and I would clean everything else. He feels this is fair, somehow. In actual hours, it is not. But I’m beyond this point now. I’ve simply come to accept the fact that the unspoken agreement is now: he does dishes (rarely), cleans the catbox, and takes care of the lawn/snowy driveway, and I do everything else. Everything else. Shopping, groceries, bill paying, toilet scrubbing, vaccumming, dusting, picking up, taking out the garbage, laundry, dry cleaning, sweeping, scrubbing, bending, kissing ass, you name it, I do it.
This is not the issue, however.
Apparently, Esteban feels this system is too taxing on him. He is, after all, mowing the lawn one hour a week and thus does not have time to do the dishes but once every two months. Yes, people, he hasn’t done the dishes in two months. No, I’m lying. Before he left for Vegas, he washed fifteen minutes worth of dishes and then we had to leave and he actually pitifully said “But… what about the dishes?” and that absolved him of dish duty. Because he had a plane to catch but at least he was sorry about it, right?
Tuesday night I came home from work. His butt was parked in the LazyBoy, cat on his lap. He had spent the day helping a friend with his computer. He was too busy to do the dishes, which hadn’t been done fully since Easter (when I did them). I know this because my mother’s pan is still there, dirty, along with the pitcher I made the mimosas in.
Correct me if I’m wrong but I think I’ve been very tolerant thus far. Months, people. It’s been months. I have said nothing.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I asked about the dishes. He said he didn’t care, don’t ask him about it. Fight ensued. He gave me an ultimatum. I said “It’s my house too.” He didn’t care. Bad words were said. He said that this same fight has been played over and over, which is true, and he didn’t want to have it any more. I said, “Fine, don’t talk to me about it then, because ‘Buffy’ is about to come on and I don’t want you to talk to me during it.” And he went out to cut the grass and I made and ate dinner (did I mention that I do all the cooking too?).
He was very good about not talking to me during Buffy. He sucked up afterwards. I went to work on my computer.
He asked if I wanted to go for a drive (no).
He asked if I would like to go with him to get an ice cream cone (no).
He asked if I wanted a blanket or a glass of water (no).
He then said “I’m going to the gas station to pick up some cigarettes… do you want anything.” And I said, “Ok, I’d like a rootbeer float from A&W” which is in a gas station near us.
He faltered,”I wasn’t going to THAT gas station.”
I looked at him, “Oh, then nevermind.”
He leaves and comes back with my rootbeer float. I thank him. I drink most of it and then go to bed.
He must have relaxed because then he comes in and wakes me up. “Do you have money in your check book I can borrow?”
Me, half awake, “Um… yeah.”
“I need $300 for my Visa bill.”
He makes twice the money that I do. He just got the tax return back and it was deposited in his check book. He, to my knowledge, doesn’t actually spend any of his money on anything (especially since the groceries, gas, etc, comes from my check book).
So I yelled at him for waking me up to talk about money and bills.
Now, maybe I’m a harpie bitch here. It could be, I’m not denying that I’m pretty harsh and cold when I’m upset with people.
So the next morning, I called him from work and asked him to get a new toilet seat to replace the one he broke. He pouts, “You didn’t wake me up this morning before you left! You’re my alarm clock.”
Oh well.
I know. Harsh.
So he brings me some roses at work, which was nice, but I knew that when I got home the dishes STILL WOULDN’T BE DONE! All the flowers were were a “GET OUT OF PISSED OFF WENDY FREE CARD” for the dishes. Like, how could I be made about the rotting smelly heap of dirty crud in the sink and on the counter if he gives me some pretty coral-colored roses?
I really resent the gender-role stereotypes that have developed. Him balking only at doing the “female role” of dish washer. Oooh, the little woman is pissed, so send her flowers. Eeeesh.
Tonight. If they are not done tonight, the loud sound you hear coming from my house will be the SMACK being laid down.
Like I said. Harsh.
On a lighter note (a more than you really wanted to know type thing): I’m test-driving the new thongy panties today. I realized as I was walking into work that as I walk, I must be able to feel “normal” underwear on my butt cheeks. This makes sense as you think about it, because what really is your butt other than the tops of each of your legs, which must move as you walk. So now, the cheeks are unencumbered and instead I have this little strap of material down the center, pulled tight by elastic. It is very strange. My other thongs have been elastic little straps… this is more of a “sport thong” built for comfort, I guess. Ah, technology.
Still haven’t golfed yet. Maybe I will go to the range after work. Cari and I went to lunch today and made tentative plans to golf on Sunday, so I need to swing some practice strokes before then. Woohoo! I can stop whining about not golfing.
I have the urge to rip out every shred of carpet in our house. Maybe not.
