After much complaining over my husband’s lack of initiative in doing simple house-hold chores, a fact displayed when I deliberately parked the vacuum cleaner in his path to his side of the bed in which he had the audacity to complain about it not being put away, and then it sat there for a whole week untouched, he actually made a “This might get me laid” attempt this weekend.
“Might” was not just an operative word, but a losing proposition, as you will see.
I’m in ZGirl’s room, nursing, therefore, occupied.
He pops his head around the corner of the doorway, “Do we have any more of the clorox refills for the toilet wand?”
“Yes. There’s a full box in the laundry room (where you left them a couple weeks ago after you went to the store to buy some. Where you left them instead of putting them away in the cabinet under the sink. Where you left them taking up valuable space on my counter top where I fold the laundry. That I wash!).”
He then reappears.
“Do you know which bathroom the wand is in?”
“There’s only two bathrooms that it could be in. You’ll have to look (which, my god, one bathroom you had to pass to stand in ZGirl’s doorway to ask me that. If it’s not in that bathroom, well then, it must be in the other bathroom, which is the one that desperately needs the cleaning!).”
I swear. Is testosterone an antibody for logical thinking?