Another Chapter in the Ongoing Adventures of Mr. and Mrs. Husband.
Let Me Make One Thing Perfectly Clear – I never explain myself. Oh how I wish that were true. I am burdened with an overwhelming need to explain myself at every opportunity. To justify my existence or desires. Well if I’ve learned anything at all recently it’s that explaining myself is fricking exhausting, and it is really a useless endeavor.
I’ve been reading a lot of books recently about alternative realities. Or rather, the reality that we create for ourselves. My current reality is that I am noticing that I’m sick and tired of explaining myself. And I brought it down on my own head. I created this monster myself.
It hit me in the face like a brick yesterday. A seemingly minor but recurring bone of contention in life with Mr. Husband is our bedroom. To Hubman in his forty some odd years of bachelor life, the bedroom was the place that you tossed everything in that you don’t want guests to see. For me my bedroom has always been intended to be a mini spa – a sanctuary, a restful place to nap on in the afternoon or stare out the window and daydream. There is of course the idea that hanky panky can take place in one’s bedroom without prior or post decontamination.
The current mode of this room of rooms, to me, is a combination of locker room/dirty clothes hamper/medicine cabinet/dog slobbered toy bin/gun rack/cat fur ball infested/musty piles of old books on the dresser/filing cabinet/dustbin. It is not a room that I want to even consider disrobing in, let alone anything else. It hit me the other day when I noticed that I’ve developed the habit of changing into my pajamas in my office and waiting until the very last-minute when I can barely keep my eyes open to get in bed. I rarely go in there during the day anymore so it’s always a question in my mind, “wonder what pile of crap is on the bed tonight?”
How did I get from explaining myself to a rant about the bedroom you may ask? Well, let me explain. (sigh, there I go again) It started out with an experiment with Mr. Husband. The roundabout we get caught up in is that he demands “tell me what you want” and when I tell him he either 1) explains that it is not really what I want, as if I’m a vacillating imbecile, bouncing of the walls, and blurting out random requests. 2) It is an unreasonable request to begin with, or 3) heads straight to getting mad. Followed by stomping into his office and seclusion for hours or days.
The experiment arose out of a huge honking basket of laundry on – the – bed. Granted it was clean laundry. The first 4 years of my habitation of this house was devoted to getting Hubman to keep dirty laundry in a hamper instead of a pile on the floor. The basket was for our housekeeper to fold and put away. Yea yea, we have a housekeeper. Even in households that have outside help, tempers can flare surrounding different views of tidiness. The problem is the other 6 days of the week this pile of laundry builds up. His manly man laundry basket could hold a side of beef and is too heavy for me to pick up when full. I’ve considered sitting on the bed and shoving it off the end with my feet, but was afraid I’d pull a hamstring. I have had fantasies of piling it on the front lawn and setting fire to it like that movie “Waiting to exhale.” My saner self prevailed because I’d probably end up with a ticket or fine. We are still under a burn ban here, despite that fact that we’ve had enough rain that last few days to float the ark of the covenant.
So my experiment went as follows:
Me: I have a request.
Mr. Husband: what? (starts to get deer in the headlines look)
Me: Could you find some solution for your laundry where it is not on the bed, but somewhere out of sight?
Mr. Husband: But Lucy (housekeeper) is going to put it away tonight?
Me: Could you find a system where it isn’t either on the bed or in a raggedy old plastic basket the rest of the time? Maybe shove it in a drawer or something.
Mr. Husband: But I don’t have any empty drawers.
At this point I realized that we were riding on merry-go-round of reasons, again. And whoever had the most excuses wins the brass ring. I had to “explain” why using our bed as a laundry station was not ok. I had to have a “logical” reason. He would counter with explanations that this was an unreasonable request. If I did not sufficiently justify my request, it would not be granted in the high court of manipulation. This was not going anywhere. I got ticked off and decided to take a different approach, just restate my original request, opinion, whatever you want to call it.
Me: That’s not my problem! I don’t like laundry and other junk piled on the bed, at the foot of the bed, or on the floor. Get rid of it. (it may be safe to say that I was yelling, at the point)
Mr. Husband: FINE! (yelling) goes in office, slams door.
I declined to pursue the subject further in a lame attempt to explain myself to get permission to want what I want. I noticed later in the evening that the laundry was gone. I don’t know and don’t care where it went. The housekeeper noticed the missing laundry and asked me about it. I just shrugged and said “I don’t really know, maybe he put it away.” She laughed and went on about her business.
Sometimes the only way to get a point across is to yell it plainly. I think I’ll go sweep the bed.