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The Strike

I’m on strike.

 

 

This, friends, is what the fridge looks like.

 

 

 

Obviously, what is on the top shelf is a necessity. What Joel calls my 7pm medicine.

 

The only other main food item is that big container of pumpkin soup I found in the freezer at the start of the week, and which I dish up in smaller containers and give to Joel every day as he leaves for work.

 

I’ve packed you some lunch, I call out, and Joel takes the soup in his hands and says, “Thanks! Looks great”, a little too enthusiastically. He has become extremely proficient, this week, in hiding his disappointment in my meal offerings, and I suspect that the minute he gets to work, he tips it down the sink and goes out to buy himself something slightly more satisfying.

 

 

I think he senses I’m reaching my threshold. Before he left today, Joel said, “Don’t worry about the food situation. I’ll do a grocery shop once I finish work.”

 

And friends, Joel NEVER grocery shops.

 

I then heard him say (brace yourselves), “And don’t worry about the kitchen. I’ll clean it up when I get home.”

 

And friends, Joel NEVER cleans.

Like, NEVER.

 

NEVER, EVER, EVER.

 

He sometimes forgets to even clean the soap off his own body when I demand he have a shower and threaten to run away with his only child and never return if he DOESN’T GET IN THAT SHOWER IMMEDIATELY. When he comes out with bits of soap still tangled in his beard or in his chest hairs, I repeat the threat and tell him to CLEAN THE SOAP OFF AS WELL, SWEET MOTHER OF GOD.

 

Anyway, I was in shock, to say the least.

 

And I realized things had reached a new level of crazy.

 

I thought I was holding myself together pretty well this week considering the weekend I had, but with Joel cleaning the kitchen and doing the shopping, things down here are slipping into MADNESS.

 

 

Thanks for visiting friends. Y’all come back now.

2 Responses to “The Strike”

  1. Kathy V.

    My husband’s been doing things like this for the past week. Which isn’t so bad, I think maybe that I could still be coping pretty well — except that tonight he also brought me a glass of wine. BROUGHT. I sat, he brought. I must be in worse shape than I thought.

    Reply

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