GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER!
That first line may have caught you a bit off-guard, sorry about that. Let’s start over with something more positive—I love you. I do, really, even though your behavior is making me crazy, I know you’re a good guy, that’s why I married you.
For this reason, I wanted to talk with you about some concerns I have, before I find you while you’re sleeping and sort this out the old-fashion way—with a pillow. Kidding, kidding. Of course, I’m kidding…
Anyway, I’m staring at a pile of your dirty clothes, on the floor, two feet from the laundry basket, and I’m not gonna lie, it’s making me a little stabby. I just don’t understand. Do you want me to hurt you? I don’t want to hurt you, but I might if I see your dirty socks in the middle of the floor one more time. Because, seriously, WTF?
Here’s the thing, 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. Lost. Gone. Never to return. And I think we can both agree, I’m already teetering on the edge of crazy.
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 like 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.
Maybe I could overlook the occasional empty box, if it wasn’t for the 9 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. But, would it kill you to rinse a plate or a bowl 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, please, I beg you.
There is an alternative here—we could get a maid or a housekeeper. She can clean, and mop, and wash, and scrub—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. No! I will hire a dude—an ugly dude.
So, there you have it, pick up after yourself, or I’m hiring an old, ugly dude to wash your underwear. The choice is yours, my dear.
Love you madly, even if you’re a giant slob.
Your Crazy Wife