Warning: This post contains images of extreme domestic slovenliness that some readers may find disturbing.
It’s been a crazy, busy week at work (but more of that over another post or two, I suspect). But as I have neither time turner, Tardis nor duplication machine something’s had to give. And as I’m a far cry from a domestic goddess at the best of times (because, truly, yawn) housework has been the thing to go. People have been fed and clothed and no one’s caught an infectious disease, but we’re surely not far from a visit from Kim and Aggie.
What would have been appreciated, mind you, would have been a hand from someone with more time on their hands. HUSBAND, say, whose managed to nag (about changing the bed whilst I’ve been ironing, about bathing the kids and chasing Indy whilst he’s been off to his cinema club) whilst failing to to properly help (since only changing the bottom sheet and one pillow does NOT constitute changing the bedding…and that’s before realising that he’d put the sodding sheet on inside out. Muppet.).
And this despite the conversation we had last week:
Me: I did the washing up last night.
Him: Right. Well done.
Me: I know. Only, when I did it there seemed to be a lot of little flies around and when I cleaned up the tea towel you’d soaked and left on the side there were MAGGOTS underneath!
Him: Oh my God!
Me: I know! It was vile. So can you not leave everything drenched. And maybe chuck out your mouldy fruit.
An overripe plum may have made its way into the compost bin as a direct result, but mostly my words fell on deaf ears.
And so, today…
I raced from work (not easy in a pencil skirt and heels) to pick Boo up from her dance class as Husband’s away with plans more fun than childcare. Again. (That’ll be at least two weekends in a row when he’s not been here, plus three evenings out this week. And I’m meant to feel guilty for not being at home because I work?!)
He’d still been in charge until 11 when he’d handed the reins to Eve and caught his train. I’d got Boo ready before I left, but Noodles had still been sleeping. How far can a household descend in the 5 hours since I’d left the house?
Pretty damn far, it seems.
You can’t beat coming home to a gleeful ‘Yay!’ from Noodles. But looking at him he’s still in the same t-shirt he’d slept in. And the same nappy!
For fuck’s sake, Husband. Man up – or should that be Mum up? – and change a sodding, sodden, overnight nappy!
I’ll do it then, shall I? I think.
It only takes a couple of minutes too. Never mind the maggots, he’s sunk to new levels of self-absorption/laziness.
Nappy disposed of, hands cleaned, it’s time to make lunch. The contents of the fridge are fairly sparse. 1) Because the fridge doesn’t work as it should, freezing stuff at the bottom, but failing to cool anything on the top two shelves, thus meaning food poisoning’s best avoided if things have a quick turnover. And 2) because supplies dwindle when you’re shopping on the hop after a full day at work, even if you’re the last person to get in and you’re still expected to provide a meal, just because you’re the one with a vagina. Still, cheese on toast is an option.
I go to the grill expecting it to be clean and ready for use as I’d expressly asked Husband to clean it properly as I’d cooked mackerel on it the night before and there’s nothing worse than residue mackerel tainting the next thing you cook.
Husband had removed the tin foil, but it had clearly been nowhere near a sink.
I’ll do it then, shall I?
Except, the sink:
What in the name of all that is artery-blocking is that around the sink?!?! Husband and Grandy tend to share washing-up duties. So how can two men not clock the greasy, fatty, truly disgusting residue and not clean it up?!
Seriously, it’s vile.
I’ll do THIS too then, shall I?
(Along with a random collection of plates and glasses, baking trays and cutlery that definitely weren’t used by me, but which may explain the lack of milk in the fridge this morning. Although, to be fair, Eve’s boyfriend had done some washing-up, so at least one male is trying to pull some weight.)
Oh, and for the record, the tea towel was drenched again and left to fester, although, luckily, sans maggots this time.
Sink cleaned, grill washed up, sink cleaned again I’ve gone off the idea of cheese on toast. Boo has decided she fancies pancakes, though, of course, we don’t have any milk.
We do have TWO empty milk cartons left next to the kettle though.
A signature move of Husband’s as he’s apparently incapable of either returning a full milk carton to the fridge or putting an empty one in the recycling.
I’ll do that then, shall I?
And then to sort the milk situation. Eve was still at home, albeit at the top of the house with Teddy. I have a call to make: get Boo and Noodles sorted to come with me to the petrol station across the road (toddler + garage forecourt + the fact that when we went shopping yesterday he’d tripped up a kerb and is now sporting a forehead lump as a result = probably not a good idea) or risk a social services file by dashing over by myself. I choose the latter and feel like a the world’s worst mum. At least I come out with the milk (and a cheap, gristle-filled pasty and the newspaper) instead of a cheap gristle-filled pasty, the newspaper, a screaming toddler, half the sweets section and probably not the milk as I’d have forgotten it amongst all the stress and wailing.
The pancake is made amongst a kitchen surface covered in crumbs, sugar and drops of honey. Honey has to be up there at the top of my most despised list, even more so than mushrooms as at least mushrooms don’t leave a sticky debris behind, even if the do have the texture of a slug. The honey trails are always down to Husband, yet he never wipes them up.
I’ll do it then, shall I?
Oh, and the kitchen bin is full to bursting, rubbish stacked upon rubbish rather than someone actually changing the bin liner. The world’s most disgusting game of Jenga.
I’ll do it then, shall I?
It’s half past three before the kitchen resembles somewhere people could actually prepare food without causing Gordon Ramsay’s forehead lines to furrow ever deeper.
By which point Boo is sulking in her room – ‘worst. day. ever.’ – and Noodles walks through to the kitchen in a funny way. His nappy’s DRIPPING! Literally. Luckily only with fruit juice – that he’s managed to tip all over the living room floor before slipping in it – although closer inspection shows he’s filled his nappy too. Marvellous.
I’ll do it then, shall I? And thus it continues.
Ah, the weekend. A time to switch off, kick back and have fun. Or not.
If Husband comes home tomorrow and says how very tired he is from partying I shan’t be responsible for my actions. I may have done a lot of nasty things over the weekend but I’d rather not have to do time.
Besides, what’s the betting in prison I’d be put on cleaning duty?