My headband is resting on a short stack of cookbooks, my strapless bra is flung over a dining chair, and the paraphernalia that came with my first ever iPhone is strewn across the table. The apartment is a mess.
I’m a naturally messy person, but Rogue Husband is not. He is a very neat person, in his way. I say in his way because while he puts things away pathalogically and frequently helps with dishes, he doesn’t see dust, grime, ickyness, or brown spots on the walls. Like it ain’t even there. I don’t care about the large objects (hence bra on dining chair), but I will get on my hands and knees to scrub, hating every second of it. I really, really hate housework.
To my credit, in the month after the honeymoon I kept this place spotless. Literally. If my cooking resulted in the kitchen floor feeling slightly gritty, I vaccumed and mopped immediately. If I took something out, I put it away. For a month! It’s a personal record.
Then I go visit my mother for a week, and when I come back, the place is picked up beautifully – but the grime! That was all I needed to slide down the slippery slope into Messy Town.
My writing business, on the other hand, has been doing great. Less time cleaning = more time working.
But, tonight Rogue Dad is coming over in a visit announced just this morning, and I’m again sacrificing my work time to pick up and scrub down. Apparently Dad wants to shower here too (why God WHY!?), which means I have to scrub the shower again since Rogue Husband let it go to Hell. I mean, what was he washing in there – a used car tire?
Just because I work from home does not make me a house-wife. I guess that is what I’m getting at. Now I’m going to trot along to the supermarket to buy ingredients for dinner (raspberry risotto and roasted beet & zucchini salad) and spend the day cleaning instead of working…
I do it to myself. I know.