One of the most galling things about being in charge of the housework used to be picking up after Jack. He’d walk in after work, shed all his clothes into a sweaty, dusty pile, stretch his naked self on the couch until he felt like cooking dinner, and said clothing pile could sit there for upwards of two or three days before the spark of life would bring it to its knees and it would crawl into the laundry hamper in search of its own kind. My thinking being, we both worked, I did the laundry, so Jack could pick up after his own damn self.
Ah, but things have changed. On the long highway that leads to DomestiCity, one learns the rules of the road.
Then Jack, liberated from his clothes, steps out of them and, under the spell of some kind of amnesia that has yet to be identified by science, leaves them in a pile where they sit and molder for days.
Now I pick them up and cart them away, haunted by the ghost of Erma Bombeck.
Then We shared the shopping, Jack cooked, and I did the dishes.
Now I shop every day because the Peanut likes riding in the basket and flirting with the man behind the fish counter.
Then Vacuum cleaner? What’s that?
Now Once the Peanut stopped trembling with fear every time I turned the damn thing on, I could finally start vacuuming up all the lead paint chips that come down from the ceiling on a daily basis.
Then You couldn’t see out of the windows, they were so grimy.
Now So, if you want to look at a tree, go outside!