~ January 17, 2004 - 12:22 p.m. ~
The Mopped floor of Love
Today is already strange and I feel extremely cranky, but at least I know why. This is due entirely to PMS (my [probably non-existent] male readership is now free to collectively groan) and to the fact that Tim�s disregard for my attendance to the housework have coupled to make me abnormally (and rather undeservedly) bitchy. In my heart of hearts, I know that, what with the state of America�s crippling economic crisis, the war in Iraq and those all over the world, the poor state of education, the locust-like spread of reality television (surely one of the Seven Signs!), a few piles of laundry, a sink full of dirty dishes, and papers and tools everywhere are hardly anything to have a fit about. But for the love of God, how does one incur such a mess in one night?Thursday night I went to bed with the apartment in near mint condition. I had cooked dinner, and Tim promised me he would do the dishes (�All of them?� �Yes! All of them!� �You promise?� �Yes, Gina. I promise.�) that night. By the time I was ready to hit the hay, he had done two pots and had turned his attention to rathergood.com. There was an ice cream carton on the table, and an empty container of cookies.
I woke up to find the table littered with napkins, papers, and the remains of some leftovers. There were an inexplicable number of socks tossed about the computer area, and a few pairs of Tim�s shoes as well, including a pair I know I had put into the closet last night. Fencing gear lay in various stages of being unpacked, and there were three mugs by my laptop. The floor around Tim�s desk was liberally dotted with scraps of paper and pens. In the hall, a bag of just-cleaned laundry had been hauled out of the closet, and was spilling its contents to the floor. There were three more pairs of shoes scattered about as well. The bathroom bore witness to Tim�s clothes from yesterday, and the kitchen had magically sprouted several more dirty dishes. Tim, I understand, had pulled an all-nighter working on a project design, and had finally come to bed at 7 am. But how, how had his night, supposedly spent entirely at his drafting table, resulted in the apartment-wide mess?
Fuck if I know. Fuck if Tim knows. I spent most of yesterday until about 4 alternately picking up after him as I cursed under by breath, and screaming at him to help me pick up. Can I just say that the apartment was sparkling on Thursday? I mopped, for heaven�s sake! I have no earthly clue where the mud spots and sticky stains that were on the floor Friday morning came from.
None of this would be a big deal if it wasn�t for the fact that this happens all the time. Interestingly enough, Tim is extremely neat when I�m not around. When I go away without him, I usually come back to a pristine apartment. But when I�m around, he�s a slob, and he has to be guilted or coerced into helping around the house. In all fairness, he does do all the heavy lifting and I don�t help because I can�t. But I do pretty much everything else. I once intentionally did not change the toilet paper roll for two weeks just to see if he ever would, and he didn�t. I had previously complained that he never did this, and he assured me he did it all the time. So when the paper ran out and he opened up a new roll without removing the empty one from the holder, I didn�t do or say anything, just to see. Two weeks later, I accused him again of not changing the roll, and he swore that he always did. I pulled him into the bathroom, and pointed out the empty roll on the holder, the empty roll on the toilet tank, and the half-empty roll on the counter next to the sink. He said it was just toilet paper, and I was freaking out over nothing. He�s probably right. But the point is that he says he does stuff, doesn�t, and then gets indignant when I accuse him of not helping out.
Example 2. I often cook, so in the spirit of fairness, I often ask him to do the dishes. About 9.5 times out of 10, he doesn�t do them that night. I usually end up doing them the next day, mostly so that I have clean dishes to eat from. When I complain, he says that I don�t give him enough time to do the dishes, I just jump in and do them before he gets the chance. In the same sort of experiment, I have held out for days not doing the dishes, getting takeout instead of cooking, just to see when he would get around to it. Once, the stink from the kitchen was so bad that I just kept candles lit in there all the time, and he still didn�t do the fucking dishes. And he claims that he does do them, often. Bullshit.
This is really the only sticking point in the relationship. Other than the fact that I feel like a goddamn housewife because I�m always cooking and cleaning for him, things are fine. Nearly perfect in fact. But I�m starting to get flipped out. I suppose I should count my blessings that I�m with someone as smart and sweet and caring as Tim, but for the love of God, would it kill him to vacuum once and a while? I realize how superficial I sound, but when something like this has been going on for two years without respite, in spite of several conversations, discussions, and numerous rules laid down, it starts to make one batty.
This is probably the most boring entry I�ve ever written, but I had to get it off my chest. Christ, I should change the name of this diary from �Musings of an Avalonfaery� to �Rantings of an Avalonfaery.�
