My dad has long made fun of my cleaning habits. Apparently, they’re just not up to scratch. Last time he visited, he said it looked like I and my husband were still living in college. This coming from the guy whose mom ironed his underpants and undershirts for him after every wash (one of the many reasons he and my mom divorced - he expected that once his mom wasn’t around to iron his underpants, my mom would be more than happy to do so).
Anyway, when I pointed out that most of the crap laying about was my husband’s my dad countered with, “Well, you’re the wife.” Apparently us wimmins come with a French maid uniform and cap, complete with cleaning neuroses (oh, yeah and a voracious sexual appetite and a penchant for wearing high heels during sex, but dad and I didn’t talk about that part). And if my husband is incapable of cleaning his shit and I refuse to pick it up for him, I ought to be ashamed of my housekeeping skills.
Jesus, what the fuck am I? A maid? And what about my husband? He’s not a child, nor is he disabled. He’s more than capable of cleaning up his own shit, and will, but in his own time. It’s not like we’re living in filth. There’s no food out, old or otherwise, cat boxes are cleaned every day, kitchen every night and bathroom every weekend.
Anyway, dad’s visiting tonight. The house is nearly spotless, thanks to my and my husband’s efforts. If I hear a peep about my housekeeping skills or lack thereof, the shit is going to hit the fan.
What really got my goat, though, was the “Well, you’re a wife comment.” What fucking century is he stuck in anyway?
All right then. Sorry 'bout the lame, pre-emptive rant. Now I’m off to wash the dishes, take out the recycling and trash and stock up on booze.