Listen up, menfolk.
I've a wee bit of advice to offer to all of the menfolk out there. Save yourself the trouble of arguing with an extremely testy spouse, and do the fucking dishes when your woman has cooked you a meal. Capisce?
See, here's the deal: I cook. I cook every goddamn day - barring Saturdays, when we go out to eat - and I don't use mixes or pre-made, reheatable crap from a box. I cook real food from scratch. I pare, slice, dice, cube, mince, julienne, sear, roast, saute, sauce, steam, broil, bake, and nap all of the raw ingredients and turn them into dinner. The WCM is always unstinting in his praise, but the man will not WASH A FUCKING DISH after I cook unless he's been prodded into it.
I resent like hell the fact that I have to work the same number of hours as yon asshole spouse, but then still come home, cook dinner, supervise homework, do laundry, tidy up, fetch and carry, and generally be his frigging mother when he just comes in the door, throws his lunchbag on the counter and plops his ass in his recliner, squawking about "When's dinner going to be ready?" When's it ready? When it's ready, motherfucker! If you don't like it, here's a can opener and a tin of beans. Go for it!
So then, well, after slaving away, I find myself muttering streams of vicious obscenities as I'm bending over loading the dishwasher. I get it all loaded, but then am called away to put the child to bed - yet another chore too complicated for the feeble-minded twat I foolishly shackled myself to for life - and come back to find that the WCM has bestirred himself to put a detergent cube in the machine and turn it on. This time, he even remembered to unwrap the cube. (Yes. Yes, he did actually put a wrapped one in there once. It chills my blood to remember that I have willingly passed this man's DNA on to another generation.) And do you know what he has the sheer unmitigated gall to tell me then? Do you? Do you really?
He told me that he did the dishes.
I think that it would be classed as a Justifiable Homicide, don't you?
See, here's the deal: I cook. I cook every goddamn day - barring Saturdays, when we go out to eat - and I don't use mixes or pre-made, reheatable crap from a box. I cook real food from scratch. I pare, slice, dice, cube, mince, julienne, sear, roast, saute, sauce, steam, broil, bake, and nap all of the raw ingredients and turn them into dinner. The WCM is always unstinting in his praise, but the man will not WASH A FUCKING DISH after I cook unless he's been prodded into it.
I resent like hell the fact that I have to work the same number of hours as yon asshole spouse, but then still come home, cook dinner, supervise homework, do laundry, tidy up, fetch and carry, and generally be his frigging mother when he just comes in the door, throws his lunchbag on the counter and plops his ass in his recliner, squawking about "When's dinner going to be ready?" When's it ready? When it's ready, motherfucker! If you don't like it, here's a can opener and a tin of beans. Go for it!
So then, well, after slaving away, I find myself muttering streams of vicious obscenities as I'm bending over loading the dishwasher. I get it all loaded, but then am called away to put the child to bed - yet another chore too complicated for the feeble-minded twat I foolishly shackled myself to for life - and come back to find that the WCM has bestirred himself to put a detergent cube in the machine and turn it on. This time, he even remembered to unwrap the cube. (Yes. Yes, he did actually put a wrapped one in there once. It chills my blood to remember that I have willingly passed this man's DNA on to another generation.) And do you know what he has the sheer unmitigated gall to tell me then? Do you? Do you really?
He told me that he did the dishes.
I think that it would be classed as a Justifiable Homicide, don't you?
Labels: domestic disharmony, peevish
10 Comments:
If men had been created to do dishes, then god would have given him smaller feet to get closer to the sink.
Now stop you're greetin and take out the trash when you're done. Don't forget to get me a beer out of the fridge on the way back in.
By Barlinnie, At 3:53 AM
Men can only operate machinery with proper oscillating flange torque converters and sundry other oily bits.
Kitchen machinery is the responsibility of women folk, and one they should be thankful for.
Make me another cuppa love, and don't forget to put the cat out.
Oh, I want two boiled eggs for breakfast.
By garfer, At 4:59 AM
Jimmy, I'll gladly get your beer. I don't know if you'll like where I put it, though...
Same goes for your boiled eggs, Garfy love.
I'm going on strike. It's going to be Chinese take-away until yon wee mannie can figure out which end of the scrub-brush is up.
By Peevish McSnark, At 8:12 AM
I am married to a woman. That's it.
:/
My boy can't do man things, but he will do dishes, laundry, etc..etc...
By Melting Mama, At 8:15 AM
Totally justifiable. Would you like an accomplice?
I won't even get into the crap I've heard/witnessed/endured. I can't tell you how many times I've heard, "But, you're the WOMAN. That's your job." Let's be each other's accomplice, yes?
By Anonymous, At 9:50 AM
ah jeeze.. now look what you've started. Just don't come whining when your Rabbit can't fix the car or carry a tray of drinks back from the bar.
Have you got that beer yet?
By Barlinnie, At 11:02 AM
mrs. noz and i have a deal, whichever one of us doesn't cook, does the dishes. we alternate cooking dinner each night (at least for the nights that we are home).
i'm not saying our arrangement is perfect, everyone should figure out their own deal. but if you're not happy, why not negotiate? if he won't negotiate, then there is always a strike...
By upyernoz, At 12:21 PM
Actually I think I'll have my eggs over easy with some bacon and hash browns.
Jump to it.
By garfer, At 2:11 PM
OMFG...that's all I have to say on that.
Oh, and your boyfriend? Nothing like your husband. Max comes to me frequently and says "Mommy, I want to help you with the dishwasher." Also? When he's done with his bath, he takes the washcloth and rubs down the sides of the tub and says "Mommy, I'm cleaning up the tub." Then again, he also comes to me and says "Mommy, clean up this big mess!". Ok, so maybe HE is going to need a boyfriend...not that there's anything *wrong* with that! (This morning he told me I should wear my purple necklace...and when I complained that I was wearing a red sweater, he said "Ok, wear your black necklace." WTF?? He can't count to five, but he can accessorize??)
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