Domestic Revolution

It is necessary to reiterate my positions, in case you missed them somehow. I work all the damn time because my husband is a workaholic BUT I love him more than air. This is my story and I’m sticking to it. Let us not capitulate to any misdirected sympathy.

Recently there have been some new, unwelcome, developments here on Hippy Hill. The other occupant of this humble dwelling has taken to leaving work clothes on the floor here and there, wherever they are shed. Typically, I pick them up and put them in the laundry receptacle. I am not completely without empathy for the exhausted worker- regardless, if the exhaustion is self-inflicted. Repeated bad habits become infractions. Infractions will not be tolerated. No, they most certainly will not.

Socks on the bedside floor do not offend one’s finer sensibilities. I prefer their nubby wooliness out of the bed rather than in the bed undermining comfort. I will stoop to transfer the socks to the laundry receptacle without complaint. Trousers are an altogether different matter. I do not care to see them on the floor no matter how close the proximity to the laundry receptacle, nor do I wish to view them slung haphazardly over a chair back, or  casually kicked off on the bathroom floor.

Standards begin to slip gradually and, before one can comprehend what has transpired, events accelerate in a disastrous cyclone of domestic mayhem. The other occupant, when sweetly reminded that discarded trousers do not belong anywhere other than the assigned laundry receptacle, has taken to responding, in a manner most slothful, from a prone position on the sofa, “I’ll get them when I get up.” You can imagine the gracious reaction to such a response.

Hippy Hill is on the east coast of the US, where there is a distinct change of seasons. As the seasons change there are household chores that must be completed. I like to do the chores, assuring they are done correctly. One of the chores is window washing.

Last year, in what must be a confounding new OSHA regulation, the ladders were removed from Hippy Hill as part of a safety campaign.  I was advised by the other occupant that I couldn’t be trusted to observe minimum safety requirements in ladder use, thus they were removed. I have been requesting a ladder since just after Labor Day, all to no avail. The windows are filthy or, at the very least, they could use cleaning before winter.

A domestic revolt has been organized. It’s sad that it has come to this. Last night, I calmly threw the trousers out the bathroom window. That took care of that.  Unfortunately, the members of the revolution will not be doing any laundry for others until the kidnapped ladders are returned. The manifesto was issued over coffee this morning. Standards are slipping. It is my duty to restore order so that harmony may return to the Hill. It is a portentous undertaking.

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About elroyjones

Married, no children, responsibly self-directed, living happily.
This entry was posted in Marriage and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

27 Responses to Domestic Revolution

  1. Old Jules says:

    Ladders and trousers on the floor are the fingers and toes of chaos slouching toward Bethleham. The nits destined to become lice. The Snowdens of our future yesteryears. Jack

  2. maesprose says:

    Hmmm…. sounds like it will be an interesting weekend!

    • elroyjones says:

      I am running my clothes and the shared linens through the machines as we speak. To add insult to injury, a residue from the offensive work clothes has caused irreparable damage to the sofa. Mind you, I never have an opportunity to use the sofa, myself, but I like to maintain its original unsoiled appearance. I love my husband with all my heart but there are times I’d like to smother him with the pillow as he sleeps… gently into that good night.

  3. I knew the government was going to take away our ladders…

  4. Let the revolution begin. Off with their heads. Armum laudriumque canto. Gosh, now I have to decide whose side to take.

  5. Stick to your guns. Honestly, is your house mate five years old or what??? 😉

    • elroyjones says:

      Hi Margaret, it seems as though there are different levels of tidiness, that mine is more stringent than my husband’s. I am exceedingly territorial and my expectation is that others conform to my compulsions. I find that my thoughts are less chaotic if my environment is orderly. I was once involved in a romantic relationship where I insisted the other person do 1/2 the household chores, it did not work out. I like tidiness on demand.

  6. John says:

    I do hope that when the ladders are returned that you take every precaution necessary to endure that no Unexpected Events occur. I for one do not wish to see you hurt, but, more importantly, one does not want to give one’s husband a reason to say “I told you so.” 🙂

    • elroyjones says:

      A ladder was returned as well as an extension pole. My husband thinks he’s funny, the extension pole is a product called Unger-like Felix. I’ll be careful on the ladder. I think I can use the extension pole from the loft and reach across without injury or fatality. “I told you so” is such a smug expression.

  7. To say this was awesome is just not saying it. So the best i can do for you is to say this. I feel like i felt the first time I ever heard stairway to heaven by Led Zeppelin. I dont know if you really tossed laundry out of the house through the bathroom window. If you did not really do this just lie to me and say you did because this is what i want to believe. Thank you for this laugh you’ve know idea how bad i needed it today. It is difficult to get me laughing, since i rarely am able to laugh at anything written. Just WOW. So glad i picked this one first.

    • elroyjones says:

      Oh yes, Tom, I most definitely did this. Just as your dad and my mum gave us kids a show I have to give my husband a show once in a while so he can recover the proper perspective.
      In the early years of our marriage we had the Great Grocery Store Incident, whereby I was displeased and walked out of the grocery store, leaving my husband with the cart. Not one to be thwarted, he left the cart and drove past me, honking and waving, as I stomped my way home. I wouldn’t trade him for anyone in the world and he could have both lungs, kidneys, liver, the whole enchilada any day of the week. “Communication” is essential in a happy marriage.

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