Dear Husband, I Love You, But You’re Kind Of A Slob

Dear Husband,

I love you. I do, really, even though you’re currently making me crazy, I know you’re a good guy, that’s why I married you.

So, I’m staring at a pile of your dirty laundry, on the floor, two feet from the laundry basket, and I’m not gonna lie, it’s making me a little stabby. I don’t want to hurt you, but I can’t guarantee your safety if I find your dirty socks in the middle of the floor one more time.

I’m starting to feel more like a maid than a wife and mother. Our neurotic offspring are like tiny tornadoes who leave a wake of destruction everywhere they go. The reason we don’t have more children is because I cannot physically keep up with another human’s messes. I will lose my shit, all of it. Gone forever, never to return. I think we can both agree, I’m already teetering on the edge of sanity.

I’m doing my best to teach the tornadoes to clean up after themselves, and when they don’t the responsibility falls on me.  I’m OK with that, they will learn, and I’m willing to be patient with them, because I birthed them, I love them, and also, I don’t want to live in squalor.

You, on the other hand, are an able-bodied adult, who was raised better than leaving an empty box of Cheez-itz on the sofa, like a caveman. I could probably overlook the occasional empty box in the pantry, if it wasn’t for the million chin hairs littering the bathroom counter after you shave. It looks like a forest animal was sacrificed in our bathroom.  Maybe just a squirrel, or something small, but still—not cool.

Let’s pause for some positive affirmation—you have pretty eyes and nice butt. Now, could you please rinse a plate from time-to-time? You’re killin’ me, Smalls! You don’t even have to put it in the dishwasher. I will admit, I’m a freak about how the dishwasher is loaded, but next-day, dried spaghetti is gross, and hard to clean. Come on, one quick rinse, I beg you.

There is an alternative here, we could get a maid or a housekeeper. She can clean, mop, wash, and scrun, and I will pay her well. But, she will not be young or attractive. I will hire the oldest, ugliest housekeeper you have ever seen. A dude, I will hire an old ugly dude.

So, there it is, pick up after yourself, or an old ugly dude will be here first thing Monday morning to wash your underwear. The choice is yours, my dear.

Love you madly, even if you’re a giant slob.


Your Wife

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