Wednesday, May 24, 2006

another domestic skirmish

Whenever we get home after a stay at the cottage, there are always the "catch-up" chores to do. You know, like laundry and grass cutting. Nothing too taxing or unusual. Unless you are named Mary and you have a compulsive need to do everything that ever has to be done at anytime in the course of your life and do it RIGHT NOW! There is no such thing as planning it out and paceing yourself over the next few days. Take it easy? Not on your life.

Usually when we finally arrive home, I unload the van and carry the bags and other stuff into the house. Mary is already storming past me as I unlock the door, only to disappear into that nether world that the compulsive inhabit. While I carry the bags upstairs to unpack, she is generally asking me to rip off my clothes, but not for any fun purpose. She just wants to add them to the load of laundry she has already started. By the time I get the van unloaded, she will be plotting the course of the vacuum from room to room. By the time I get my bag unpacked she will be finished sorting the mail and started on paying the bills (which aren't due for another 2 weeks). After an hour has passed she will start harangueing me about my uselessness and wondering why I am not washing windows or scrubbing floors. Never mind that we have been gone for a few days and that the house was cleaned before we left, now it has to be cleaned again beccause....well, just because. We are here so we must clean.

I admit that I am a bit more laid back at those times and tend to figure that whatever needs to be done will wait until tomorrow. I know how to pace myself. I am always tired from driving and just want to relax with the newspaper and an adult beverage or two. Of course, when my loving wife sees me stretched out in the recliner with my hand securely wrapped around a glass of suspiciously colored liquid the, uh, conversation goes something like this:

Her: "Could you possibly get off your lazy ass and give me a hand around here?"

Me: " Shhhh, I'm resting."

Her: "Well, could you at least feed the cat?"

Me: "Cat? Do we have a cat?"

Her: "I'm going to be up until 2 AM with all I have to do and you're just sitting there on you dead ass. If I didn't do everything around here nothing would ever get done. You are the most worthless sack of shit I have ever known. If it wasn't for me you would be livng in a filthy house wearing filthy clothes and probably sitting in your own crap. I don't know why I even bother with you.

Me: "Could you move out of the way, I can't see the ballgame."

Her: " You miserable sonofab............blah, blah, blah, yadda, yadda, yadda, so on and so forth, more of the same, then repeat one more time with feeling.

Me: "I love you too."

This can go on for some time if I don't gather my wits about me and force my exceedingly fatigued old body up out of my exceedingly comfortable recliner and follow her into the kitchen where she is catching her breath before the next diatribe directed at my manhood. Once I corner her against the counter, and despite her flailing arms trying to ward me off with protestations of "don't touch me, leave me alone. I'm too busy to deal with you," manage to get inside her defenses, I give her a big hug and kiss and tell her how special she is, and all is forgiven. For the moment at least. I can then go back to my recliner and finish watching the ballgame. Of course, as long as I am up anyway, I fix myself another of those wonderful adult drinks. Told you I know how to pace myself.

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