Dear Husband, Must You Really Be Such A Slob?

Starting with a haiku:

What in the fresh hell,

are you really that lazy?

Yes, I think you are.

My husband is one of a kind. I can’t think of many times over the decade we’ve spent together that he’s raised his voice at me, let alone his hand or any other such unsavory behavior that would send any woman with sense running for the hills.

He’s loyal, loving, intelligent, engaging, sentimental, generous, and best of all he is an amazing father – completely hands-on, happy to spend time, play with, love on, and care for our children. He’s funny … I love his laugh, he smiles so easily, he wakes up in a good mood, he’s a happy person to be around. He’s stable, provides for our family, values our marriage, our family … and these are the things I keep in mind each day.

Because when I get up each morning and look around, I think to myself – what the fuck?

Are these the same baby bottles that were in hot, bubbly water last night, waiting to be washed, now sitting here in tepid, germ-infested, night-old water?

Is that a dirty diaper sitting there beside the changing table?

Didn’t I pick up all these toys yesterday … the ones strewn all about on the floor?

Is the TV still on?

Did the cat actually shit in my closet because the litter box wasn’t cleaned? The same litter box I asked you to clean last night, and you smiled and said “uh huh”?

Are these your pants here on the bathroom floor, which you took off and stepped over on your way out the door, after violating the poor toilet (and leaving the clean up duty for “someone else”)?

Oh, and your shirt there, a foot away from the laundry basket on the floor, really?

I’m glad you have good hygiene, really I am, but what kind of tribal water ritual do you do every morning that leaves the mirror, counters, and floors all soaked?

Did you pull your toothbrush and toothpaste out of the holders this morning? I know you did, because I put them back every day, but I suppose you think they magically put themselves away after you’re done, along with the toothpaste cap, your deodorant, and aftershave.

Wet towel = my side of the bed.

You know, it’s OK though – because when you get home to take over the little ones and household duties and I go off into my office to work, I know there’s some chocolate I left there – the chocolate you gifted me for Mother’s Day.

You ate my fucking Mother’s Day chocolate? Right off of my desk?

Also, let’s talk about the refrigerator and food sharing – one does not simply leave an empty jug of juice INSIDE of the refrigerator. One does not leave exactly one teaspoon of salsa and remark “I saved you some.” No, no you didn’t sir – just go for it, eat the whole jar. Also, pesto is not “dip.” Also, if I don’t finish my dinner at a restaurant, that doesn’t make it your midnight snack. Also, who eats baby food? Babies, that’s who. Baby cookies are ridiculously expensive – not for you, sir.

I like to eat too sometimes. Especially my Mother’s Day chocolate.

Some basics that are occasionally overlooked are mounting up, things like:

Trash: goes into the trash can. If that part is managed, trash cans are emptied; it’s not a game to see how much you can cram in and still get the lid to close. Change it. “Change it” also means put a new bag in. It also means take the full bag ALL the way out to the garage and put it inside the large bin. Right next to the other large bin – for recycling. Ever heard of that one? That’s where the stack of boxes should be, not piled up beside the door in the garage (where they have been for weeks).

Cups: I use them too. Why do we have to be down to one cup before you stroll in with a stack of a dozen cups with rotted coffee at the bottom that you’ve been collecting in your truck? Get with it, sir.

Your truck: is not a trash can. When we have to take your truck to go somewhere, it shouldn’t require a 15-minute “clean up” lead time just to make a space for me to sit. Also, what the hell is that smell? I tote two kids around in my car and I have never smelled that smell.

Your dresser: A place for folded clothes. I wash them, dry them, fold them, and usually put them away … so how come when I open a drawer, it looks like you climbed inside and waged war on your neat, lovingly folded clothes? You needed the shorts at the bottom, I get that, but the rest didn’t deserve the punishment they received.

If you’re going to “help” by putting away clothes, don’t steal my socks – and I know my panties aren’t huge, but they’re not as small as our 4-year-old daughter’s, and so how the hell do they end up in her drawers?

The washing machine: It’s pretty heavy duty, but it isn’t designed to hold four loads at once. One word: separate.

Also, ideally a “project” is something that gets completed, especially since each one requires that a new, expensive power tool be purchased. A good storage place for said new expensive power tool is not the patio table, in the rain. Also, I suspect we wouldn’t “need to buy one” if the other one (or more) weren’t lost in that sad, disorganized pit that we call the garage, the one place that is supposedly your responsibility … well, that, the trash, and the litter box, but we know how that goes.

I’d share some more, but I’m tired … and just because I stayed up later than usual doesn’t mean you should let the 4-year-old call the shots and stay up too. Put her to bed. That is all. Good night.

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