I expressed my concern about his underwear as he made his way to the bathroom, and he shot back that they were the only clean ones he had left because someone (I can only assume he meant me) hadn't done the laundry like she'd been promising for three days.
Clearly, I am not the keeper of Jaime's dirty underwear. He doesn't expect me to do any more or any fewer domestic tasks than he does, but I do expect that of myself.
And it's not because I am the keeper of the vagina. It's because he works way more hours than I do. It was my idea. Even-steven. Fair, square and seven years ago.
On paper, communism is a great idea, too.
My father fancies himself a domestic goddess and spent many years trying to convince me that things like cooking, cleaning and dressing like a lady is fun. I didn't buy what he was carpet bagging as a child, but after years of real world experiences, I can finally say that I was absolutely a genius kid.
It's still impossible to convince myself to like doing domestic work that I promised to do, but it is possible, I've learned, to sometimes convince my partner that I'm doing stuff around the house that I'm so clearly not. I've decided to call it wife witchcraft.
We just moved to an awesome new place, and I spent a long time arranging the kitchen and adjusting everything to my height. I do most of the cooking now because Jaime gets home so late. Lies.
It's because he puts three carrots in a bowl, covers it with spinach and calls it dinner.
Anyway, I finished the kitchen. I looked around. I suggested we walk to the Indian restaurant around the corner. He agreed. Did zero laundry. Wife witchcraft.
I didn't do the laundry the next day because the people below us left their clothes in the machine. It's rude to dump them all out. This is not college, and this is not the Dirty Hands United for Constantly Smoking Marijuana Cigarettes and All Day Video Gaming Co-op where we used to live. I didn't do it. Wife witchcraft.
Instead, I spent the afternoon wrangling a dining room table that seats six, cost me $25 dollars and required both of my parents and their truck. Jaime got home, dropped his keys on it, turned to me and started talking about his day. I interrupted and asked if he liked the huge table that I texted him about then inserted into the giant hole of a dining room we once had. "Oh!" he exclaimed. "I didn't even notice!" Husband sorcery.
The next day, I had to paint a mural in the dining room then paint over it then paint one over the fireplace instead, so I couldn't possibly have done the laundry that day. He loved the mural. Wife witchcraft.
I did, however, make brownies. They were a box mix. I hated making them, and they were pretty gross. His mom asked me for the recipe over Skype. Wife witchcraft?
I don't think that one counts.
But skull booty shorts on a man who wears a helmet when he bikes to work and is supposed to be taken seriously as a medical researcher is where I draw the line. I'm doing the laundry now, but I'm also writing a blog about it, so I'm taking forever to get it done, but I am doing it, so it's almost done.
Jaime didn't sign up for a witch wife.
However, he did choose this week of all weeks to bend down, kiss my head and say, "I couldn't possibly have ever found a better wife than you."
Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to fold this in the hour I have before he gets home, so I can rub it in his stinking face.
Image swiped from: http://artjetset.com/2010/05/
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