After getting my shower, I began the ritual of cleaning. I start with the kitchen and I sweep, do everyone’s dishes, wipe the counters down, ask if the dog ate because, as usual, it’s now several hours since the spouse has been up and I see her dish is empty. I swear, one day I will just KNOW she was fed, and not have to worry about being reported to the APL for pet neglect. And wait.....oh great, the back door is still locked so I KNOW she hasn’t even been let out yet. Good flippin lord!!! Is there another adult in this house or not??
After feeding the dog, letting her out, and giving her smooches and hugs to redeem myself, I continue the cleaning of the rest of this hell hole house. My vacuum won’t suck up all the “stuff”. I call it “stuff” because God knows what it is. I feel like all I’m succeeding in doing is making little hair balls on the carpet. Dammit to hell. So I get my tools, aka scissors, and sit down on the floor to do the required maintenance (meaning I have to cut off a pound of fur from the roller-thingy). Then I finish vacuuming the living room.
Move on to vacuum Lil Lady’s room which requires picking up of the area rug, the blankets on the floor, the containers of glittery slime, the stuffed animals, a book bag, chrome book, the water bottle, the bowl of half eaten ramens, the taffy wrappers....wait, WUT?? Seriously, Lil?? Get yo ass in here!!!!
Next stop, Lil Man’s room. He has no carpeting so I just need to suck up the dust and dog hair that gathers around the edges. Thank goodn......WHAT THE FLIPPING DUCK HAS HAPPENED IN HERE???? Clothes on the floor, several shoes in the middle of the room yet none match, a box of Christmas gifts that he hasn’t done anything with, nerf balls scattered everywhere you look, I can’t find his desk....he has a desk, I know he does. Well, he had one before Christmas break anyways....
I move on downstairs....why? Because I need to throw in some laundry. And I need a fucking smoke!!!
The spouse is on the computer. The nice warm space heater keeping him toasty because he hasn’t fucking moved from that spot since waking and I’m sure his circulation at this point is subpar.
I get some laundry going, I start picking up the stuff laying around down stairs, I start dusting, shit...gotta blow my nose. Do I dare use the tissue in the downstairs bathroom that I NEVER go in because it’s worse than any public bathroom I’ve ever been in since it’s my fourth child’s spouse’s bathroom?? I cave....close one eye, plug my nose, don’t turn on the light as I quickly grab the tissue and get the fuck out before something reaches out and contaminates me!!
And I continue to clean.
Everything.
It’s 3pm by then. The spouse turns around in his nice swivel chair, eyes glazed over from the several hours of internet surfing and he says, “I’m going to set an alarm for 5.” That means he’s tired from being a lazy ogre and now he needs a nap while his wife continues to slave.
Ok, honey, you do that. 5 would be perfect for you.
So on to the next day....Sunday.....a day of rest, they say. Who are THEY? Fucking jerks, that’s who they are.
I get up, the spouse was already up and on the computer. The dog not let out nor fed. I do both. I finish up laundry. Clean up a few things that managed to put themselves on the floor, cuz you know nobody touched them. Then I go grocery shopping. It took 2 1/2 hours because apparently I didn’t get the memo that said “Walmart is a flippin madhouse today, stay away if you can.”
I make my way home, traumatized from too much Walmarting, and by this time it’s 530pm. I sure was hoping dinner was started. Nope. The spouse wanders up from the bowels of the basement to get ready to head to his Scout meeting at 6. I put the groceries away, he leaves, I make the kids dinner.
I proceed to clean out the sugar glider’s cage and then the cats litter box. I bag up trash. I get the kids to organize book bags for school tomorrow. I sign the required school planners. He gets home. Feeds his face. I get the dishes from the sugar glider’s cage to feed her, and he decides that he’ll wash dinner dishes since I “left them for him” and “oh, by the way, I prefer the dirty pot stays on the stove until washed instead of everything being stacked on it in the sink”.
Wait....what?? You PREFER? You PREFER???
Oh hell no.
Hell. To. The. NO.
For fox sake, I draw the line. Hey Mister, I have a list of things a mile long that I PREFER. When you get your head out of your testosterone-poisoned ass, I’ll share them with you.
Peace out.
Oh good grief, I would have picked up the pot and HIT HIM WITH IT!!!
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