Dishes are a constant in my house. Constantly being used, misused, dirtied and discarded in the sink for later mass-cleanings. I would put the blame for that one on Daniel who uses more dishes than any person who never cooks anything more than bacon and eggs should, but I do the same thing, only, in my mind, I'm allowed because
I'm the one that cleans the goddamn things.
So, this morning, we wake up to Daniel's alarm clock. I get up and go pee. Daniel follows suit. We both get back in bed, turn on our laptops, lay against each other, spine-to-spine (it sounds like a cold shoulder type thing, but truly, it is an expression of our love and comfortability with one another) and we read our email, look at Woot.com, etc. Then, we both shut off the computers, turn around and with Daniel's arms around me, I lay perched against him, my leg hiked up on his legs and my head resting on his chest. As I mentioned in a previous post, this is my favorite place to be. We kiss and snuggle for a while, then he gets up to shower. I read a bit and when he gets out of the shower, I sit on the sofa with him and, still unable to keep my hands off this fine man I have acquired after years of pining, molest every part of his already-clothed body.
"So, what are you making me for breakfast?" he asks me, innocently and honestly.
I feel a pang of irritation. The voice that narrates my thoughts says, "I just made you breakfast
yesterday. When was the last time you made
me breakfast? Oh, right, a
month ago when I complained that you never do!" Yes, my narrative voice uses a lot of italics.
Instead of saying anything close to this, I squash down all thoughts of irritation and in my I'm-a-good-little-housewife voice say, "Well, what would you like?"
Daniel, being ever intelligent and able to read my face like a large print book for mentally challenged five year olds says, "You know, cereal sounds good."
"Cereal, I can do." And so, happily, I trot over to the kitchen to get him a bowl when I see no bowls in our cupboard. They are all in the sink. I let out an angry little grunt and slide the blinds up, open the window above the sink and start scrubbing with only a slight pause to dry off the first bowl clean, fill it with cereal, milk and a spoon and hand it off to Daniel. Before returning to the sink, I point to the stove top.
"Oh, and
stop," pause, "PLEASE stop leaving a pan full of bacon grease," I point to another burner, "pan full of bacon grease," point to a third burner, "and a pan full of bacon grease. It's gross and unnecessary." He nods and obviously notices my pissy mood. But seriously, leave the meaty, fatty mess for your vegetarian girlfriend to clean up? NOT. COOL.
Continue scrubbing. I can feel him looking at me, thinking, "Fuck. There she goes, having her first OCD moment of the day," as he chews his off-brand Captain Crunch. I keep scrubbing until most of the dish drainer is full. Then I grab a bowl and sit on the couch with him, anger washed away with much of the bacon grease I cleaned off the pans he's soiled. We talk about the fair I went to last night with some mutual friends (he was at work, which always makes me feel guilty for having a good time without him) and about barbecues during summertime, now that it is officially summer.
He gets up to go to work, I hug him, pressing my face into his chest (he's quite a bit taller than me) and I say, "I'm sorry for my bitchy mood. I just hate cleaning when there's so much to do."
"I know." We kiss, then we kiss again, and I run out to his car with him, barefoot and pajama-clad to grab my homemade hula hoop out of his backseat.
We exchange "I-love-yous" and "have-a-good-days" and he's off to work while I sucked up some coffee and finished reading Julie & Julia by Julie Powell. She's a darling writer. In fact, she makes me jealous of her intense fan base. Is that weird and narcissistic? That I wish I could have as a successful personal blog as she does? I guess hers was a bit more driven than mine- just a place to talk about my feelings, political views and the stupid things I enjoy.
Anyway, I get quite a lot of views on this here blog. I wonder who you all are, reading about my life.
Who are you?
Anyway, the thing I love about my relationship is it's complete honesty. We can talk about our problems with whatever is going on and deal with them. The cleaning thing is a big deal to me because it's this whole psychoanalytical thing with my OCD where I can control my own environment when I am in an environment I cannot control- like shitty, awful, disgusting and boring Humboldt County, California. My OCD went full-volume when I moved here because of multiple factors, and it has made me a much less adorable person. Daniel already knew I was crazy before he signed onto this relationship. He saw me at my absolute
worst (personality-wise) beforehand, so I don't worry that me getting grumpy over dishes is going to scare him away, though I do apologize when I go bonkers. On the same note, I have seen the absolute worst of him and I still love the shit out of that man. So, we work well together. We're sticking together, no matter the weather.
I have noticed, however, when I tell my friends stories about my relationship, I tend to leave out the adorable things he does, the kind things I do for him, and I tell them the funny stories of him being a jackass and me being a bitch. For some reason, I find these stories much funnier (after they happen) than my friends do, and I end up getting asked,
"Are you two having problems?"
Which always pisses me off.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have a lot of irritation. But it isn't so bad. I have people to love, people who love me, a cute little beach shack house and a fantastic sex life.
What the fuck else do I need? :)
