Thursday, September 9, 2010

Domestic Bliss

Mike and I have a great relationship.  It's boring.  Good relationships are always boring.  The exciting ones are always bad.  I've had lots of exciting relationships, so I am so happy to be in a boring one.  I'm good here.
That being said, he and I don't quite agree on everything.
One thing in particular that stands out is our differences in housekeeping.
Clutter and I have split for good.  Some clutter is fine (books stacked to the ceiling is good.  Dusty porcelain trinkets, screwdrivers strewn about and 80 coffee mugs spilling out of cupboards is not).
One thing we disagree on is saving plastic bags.  Before I cleaned the shit out of the kitchen, there were hundreds stuffed under the counter.  They just kept collecting and we always forgot to bring our reusable bags to the grocery store so they pile up and go nowhere.  BAH!  I hate plastic bags.  They have no place in my home.  I fucking hate the things.
Mike, of course, loves to hoard the plastic bags with the belief in mind that they are actually good for something.
He also refuses to throw out old ratty clothing.  I wish I could show you a picture of these disgusting flannel pajama pants that I finally snuck into the trash after Christmas.  They had such a big hole in the crotch that he couldn't wear them around anybody.  But he refused to get rid of them.  For so long.  Even after I bought him nice, new, cotton ones.  Right now we are disagreeing over old karate pants from GOD KNOWS WHEN and these bulky, ugly, stupid brown sweat pants that make up half a load of laundry in themselves.  They're from old navy and I've been dying to burn them for months now.
In addition to keeping this crap around to wear, he even wants to keep the genuinely-no-good-anymore-should-be-thrown-out-immediately work t-shirts that he destroys.
He wants to use them as RAGS, he says.  Rags.
I take issue with this for several reasons.  1 - the word 'rags' reminds me of dirty-faced red headed orphans, who I imagine would be just as likely as I am to throw the fucking things out.  2 - we have puh-lenty of cloths that I keep nice and clean and stacked in the bottom drawer in the kitchen, right beside the stove.  I don't even think Mike has ever even opened this drawer.  3 - Paper towels have eliminated any need to stuff ripped up old filthy t-shirts in the pantry...
Oh, and PS - At least once a week I come across a stash of "Rags" he has decided to hide somewhere, and a big clump of plastic bags keeps finding its way under the counter, shoved behind the cereal.
I feel so much better just getting this all out, honestly.
ANOTHER THING!  His socks.  He leaves them on the floor in the living room all the time.  He has slowly been getting better, I admit, but as I speak there are two bunched up black socks sitting in front of the couch.  But when I confront him about all of these issues he calls me Queen of the Harpies.  
I know what you're thinking.  And my response is: if he hit me back it would really hurt.
Oh, you weren't suggesting that I beat him?
Well neither was I.  Shut up.

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