Tag Archives: chores

Do I Smell Like Vomit?

It’s sometimes difficult having conversations with a husband whose job it is to deal with special needs kids at a privately funded residential institution on a daily basis. He likes his job and it’s challenges with bodily fluids, but he doesn’t call me Special Ed for nothing. Wait… Is that considered a double-negative? Speaking of double negatives…

It’s all a dream.

The other day I came home from my own (frustratingly people oriented) job in sales, to Daryl in the kitchen re-stacking the dishwasher that I painstakingly arranged (some would say threw in there haphazardly) earlier in the day before my shift. As is common with homosexual men, he tore off his floral apron, we immediately licked our lips, lit patchouli smelling candles, stripped each other of our clothing, turned on our Bluetooth house trance music, our tower fan, and proceeded to sip our pink cosmopolitans while falling sexually to our knees. Oh wait… that was a dream I had last night.

In real life, we smiled, pecked, and hugged each other, grateful to be at home in our little world. As I pulled away and turned to get changed from my suit and tie, Daryl asks me a little too nonchalantly, “Do I smell like vomit?” Now, I know these words are usually restricted for those couples with infants, toddlers and outdoor pets that eat rodents, so I turned around while still grasping my necktie a bit to tightly. My look must have startled Daryl into a quick addendum, “I think I washed most of it out with water and paper towels at work, but I don’t think I need to change my shirt. What do YOU think?”

“What’s wrong with the way I stack things in the dishwasher?” I shot back with love filled darts behind my eyelids ready to strike.

He looks at me… then back at the open dishwasher, and quickly grabs a soup spoon before it escapes the conversation like a teen with a persistent parent. “Look at this! It still has peanut butter on it! You have to rinse things first.” He half sighs, half snorts in frustration.

“I just don’t get why they call them dishwashers then. It’s false advertising,” I shot back. “and I enjoy eating peanut butter out of the jar on occasion. Rinsing it would be such a chore. Whats the big deal?”

“… and HOW do you think water is supposed to get to this bowl when it’s blocked by another bowl?” Daryl asks, looking again into the mis-stacked puzzle of dishware, flatware, assorted cocktail glasses and a large cheese grater.

“Water jets,” I smirked as I bobbled my head from side to side, “HOT propulsion water jets.”

“No and no” he admonished like he’s some sort of physics expert.

I pivoted around and I stomped (as much as a carpeted floor will let one stomp) into the bedroom to change while Daryl continued to clink and clank his way through my jumbled mess in the Maytag, trying to make sense of it all.

Not so long ago…

What’s interesting about this situation is that when Daryl and I moved in together 9 or so years ago, living in (yet another) sin, the man didn’t understand the power of chores. I believe he thought that dust covered tables were great for leaving handwritten notes, or hearts, or those pesky XOX’s. Making a bed was something one only did in hospitals, and even then, only when a patient left or died. And trash was only taken out if it smelled. Really smelled.

Don’t get me wrong, the man wasn’t a slob so to speak, but the man was… Well, a man.

Thank God, I turned him into a woman. Wait… that sounds sexist. Thank God I turned him into a good housewife. Whew! He even once bellowed during a particularly verbal disagreement over laundry once that HE was turning into ME. Surely a fate worse than… worse than… mixing colors with whites! Wait… does that have racial undertones?

Hope.

As I was taking my socks off, Daryl came in to the bedroom holding two full glasses of our best Pinot Noir, hands me one and says, “All forgiven?” I smiled, threw my arms around his chunky chocolate neck and said “Absolutely! Now go change your shirt. You smell like vomit.”

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I don’t fold.

I got a bonus in my relationship with Daryl.

Pre-Daryl folding

Post-Daryl folding

Actually, I got several bonuses with Daryl, but one that is an amazing addition to our personal organization is his folding prowess. Scoff if you must, but having tees and underwear folded like they’ve just come out of the store package is a true work of art. I wonder if it’s some sort of latent origami-type skill that has worked its way into the back of his head.

He also does the laundry religiously (in other words, he does most of it on Sunday which is his day off). I try, on occasion to do the laundry, but Daryl doesn’t like how I do it. Apparently, pink clothing is NOT attractive and leaving washed clothes in the washer for a few days before drying is not appropriate.

I have also been “grounded” permanently from loading the dishwasher. For some reason, I was absent on the day that “pre-rinsing” and “how-to-stack” classes were given. I HAVE attempted to rectify this once in awhile, but when Daryl sees a chunk of chicken on a plate, or a “wall of bowls” around the sprayer, he gives new meaning to “SMH” (shaking my head-FB vernacular) as he rolls his eyes while re-stacking.

Believe me when I tell you I’m not a TOTAL slacker. I DO clean toilets well and I CAN cook like there’s no tomorrow (somehow having those two chores in the same sentence at the same time is not right). I am truly gifted at grocery and wine shopping (although I’m unsure about using a small plastic basket for food and a shopping cart for wine), I can shake a mean cocktail, create an award-winning (the awards are in my head) garden patio and I’m a pro at making sure the condo looks like it’s lived in by two upwardly mobile (read: second floor), professional homosexuals.

I’m also organized to a fault with bill paying (I pay in advance, Daryl thinks grace period means he has another week) and oil changes for the car, and I’m never late for work (unless you count that report that was generated last year which somehow indicated I was late 43 times by a few minutes each day which if you add up the total means an hour late annually…sheesh).

I believe Daryl and I have a wonderful balance in our 6 year relationship in many ways. It took some work to get to this place of cohabitation. We’re still learning and we’re not perfect by any means, however, he is the YIN to my YANG, the milk to my Oreo, and the Peppah to my Salt.

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