My husband and I spend most of our marriage trying to understand each other. He doesn’t blink an eye spending thousands of dollars repairing the foundation of our home but if it were up to him, we’d never buy a new piece of furniture. I, on the other hand, would be happy to live in a crooked house as long as the decor looked like it could be photographed for a design magazine.
One of the first things that we had trouble with was the “Next Tuesday” appointments. I’ve done a lot of surveying and there are definitely two camps on this subject. My husband is in the camp that Next Tuesday refers to the next one that’s coming up, ergo – Next Tuesday. To me, Next Tuesday means next week because obviously, the Tuesday after This Tuesday would be NextTuesday. You’d be surprised how many arguments can be wrung out of this (well, if you’re in a relationship, maybe you wouldn’t be surprised.)
Another thing we have trouble with is the light situation. I prefer to leave the light on in a room if I know that I will be returning shortly. My husband is of the theory that all lights must be off the instant you leave a room. We also spend an inordinate amount of time discussing the pros and cons of this.
The one thing we disagree on, yet don’t argue about, is cleaning house. I’ve admitted here before that I will happily leave the dust bunnies piling up while I busily color code my closet, something my husband cannot understand. But, to his credit, he never mentions the level of dirt we live in.
Last Friday, as I took my last pair of clean socks from my well-organized drawer I had to admit that it was time to do laundry and maybe clean the house too. Have I made it clear? I don’t like to do laundry or clean house. So I was a little bit cranky already.
I sorted the half-ton of laundry and as I walked by my husband with the first load in my hands, he looked up hopefully.
“What are you doing today?” he asked.
“I’m going to wash some clothes,” I growled.
“That seems an odd thing to do,” he replied.
What the? I went from zero to furious in 1.2 seconds. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, dropping the laundry basket on the floor. “Are you saying I don’t do the laundry enough?” By now I have one hand on my hip and the one pointing a finger dangerously close to his face. “Maybe I just won’t do the laundry. What do you think of that?”
“Oh,” he said. “Wash some clothes. I thought you said you were going to watch some crows.”
I couldn’t argue with him — that would be an odd thing to do.