It's funny, right? You think you don't have your shit together and that you can't quite get anything right. Your busy at work and can't quite find time to make dinner. The apartment won't quite stay clean and you haven't showered in 17 days.
But then you realize it could be worse. You could live the life of a certain Manhattan couple.
This morning my husband announced he'd had a dream about me. A sexual fantasy? Well...no.
No, clearly not a sex dream. That would be...well, that would be normal. And frankly, if the rest of the article was, in fact, about a sex dream involving you, a basset hound, three cans of Redi Whip, and and a Jame Joyce novel I'd be a lot less skeeved out. No, his dream was far creepier.
In dreamland, he had walked into our kitchen and caught me washing the dishes with the sponge relegated, by our system, to wiping up grunge.
OH MAKE IT STOP MAKE IT STOP!! WHO CLEANS DISHED WITH THE GRUNNGE SPONGE?!?!?!? ARE YOU AN ANIMAL?!?!?
This cleaning device is, in his mind, one molecule short of the Ebola virus, despite the fact that both of us sterilize it daily on the microwave's highest setting.
WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU, WOMAN. YOU MIGHT AS WELL HAVE WALKED IN AND WIPED YOU'RE A-
wait, what? You microwave your sponges on high? Like, this is a thing you do? And what does "highest setting" mean, exactly. You mean "not defrost". What sort of hierarchical power structure does your microwave offer that mine does not? And is this more or less effective than penicillin. Because if I can microwave my kids whenever they get sick, that'd be excellent. Health care is so damn expensive.
So, I guess this guy is pretty obsessively clean, huh?
I am married to a man who is freakishly obsessed with cleanliness and yet chronically disorganized. After reading The New York Times, he will leave it not only out of order but also with sections crumpled and opened to whatever page last caught his fancy -- never, for the record, page one.
Why does he crumple the paper? Does his clench the paper in his furious little fists whenever he reads the Frank Rich op-ed? Or, perhaps more likely, do his fists clench in orgasmic delight at the site of a Pottery Barn ad?
Probably the latter, eh? But wait, does he do anything else?
The man rarely shuts the door of a closet, even after he has forgotten to hang his coat in it.
So...he opens the cloest door but forgets to put his coat in it? Wait.
To be clear, he walks up to the closet, opens the door, and, without using the closet in any manner, walks away. Does he leave his coat on? And what about his shoes? Why am I starting to suspect he showers fully clothed?
I choose not to discuss his boxer shorts.
I chose to pretend I didn't see a reference to this man's underpants.
And yet when my cleaning isn't up to his meticulous standards -- he notices a dog hair on the rug I've just vacuumed -- he reacts to my efforts with outrage and has even been known to wrest a vacuum cleaner from my hands to complete the task the "right" way.
I should hope to hell he does. Did you not see the dog hair. I mean, I know I don't consider a carpet clean until it's clean. But maybe that's just me and my crazy ideas.
IF YOU DON'T CARE TO CLEAN IT RIGHT, I'LL JUST DO IT MYSELF. I MEAN, VACCUUMING IS SOOOOOOO HARD I CAN'T POSSIBLY EXPECT YOU TO GET IT RIGHT.
STOP CRYING RIGHT NOW!!!
I felt at home once I moved to Manhattan, where the rare woman who wants a hand-sewn dirndl finds a Fräulein to whip it up. But I hadn't counted on marrying a guy whose feminine side, as expressed through mops and Murphy Oil Soap, would be more highly evolved than my own.
Maybe you shouldn't shop for a husband in Chelsea.
But wait, back up. When you want a dirndl...wait, what? Is that spelled right? Is that what the little Jewish kids play with at Hunnukah? Is that why you want a German woman to whip one up? Is this some sort of WWII reparation? I frankly couldn't be more confused.
To sum up:
Chicago 1, Manhattan 0