Today I did something I haven’t done in near 12 years. I cleaned the inside of my fridge.
No. This does not mean it had not been done in 12 years. It means I was never the one doing it.
That’s what I have Wayne for. Wayne’s my husband. Along with trying to seek fame and fortune through regular features in my posts, he also wishes I would get the hell off my ass, and, for starters do the laundry.
In my defence, I used to do the laundry. But now I don’t. ‘Cause if I wait long enough, he runs out of clean underwear, and has no choice but to do it himself.
Me, I have lots of underwear. I’m good for at least two weeks.
It’s not like I came into this marriage lazy and unmotivated. In my past life, I did all kinds of menial chores. Actually, my ex-husband didn’t even know where the garbage bags were kept. So, in other words, I did all of the menial chores.
But when I met Wayne, he sort of lured me into his life with the promise that he would do all the shit jobs like cleaning the oven, washing the walls, and yes, cleaning the inside and polishing the outside of our stainless steel refrigerator.
Well, he didn’t say it in exactly those words. He didn’t say: “If you fuck me I’ll not only clean the inside of your oven, but I’ll also move it, sweep up all the burnt chicken nuggets and french fries from beneath it, and Mr.Clean those sticky spots where the apple filling from the pie you were cooking somehow oozed out from the oven and caked onto the floor.”
He didn’t say it like that.
That wouldn’t be romantic at all.
What he did say was that when we were in the early stages of our relationship, I had been walking by his house as he was cleaning the windows. I looked up at him and yelled out, “When you’re done cleaning your windows, you can come over to my house and do mine.”
What he thought, “I’ll do your windows baby!”
See, he never should have told me this story, because although HE meant “do your windows” to mean “I’ll bang you like a gong!” I took it to mean, “I will be your faitful servant, washing your windows, scrubbing the inside of your cubboards, and chipping away at the caked on shit in the microwave for all of eternity if you will do me the honour of becoming my wife.”
That’s what I thought.
That’s more like it.
It took me over an hour this afternoon, but I pulled out every single jar, bottle, container, and rotted peach hidden in the very back of the fridge behind the 4 year old jar of pickles (why do we even buy pickles? Nobody in the family eats them).
I scrubbed, scoured, polished, and said, “Fuck! What is this fucken dried on shit?” for over an hour.
But in the end, I looked upon my manual labour with pride.
When Wayne got home, I excitedly showed him my accomplishment, awaiting my praise, my thanks, my “Sweetie, you deserve a manicure after that hard task!”
What he said, “Wow… so does this mean I’m not getting a birthday present?”