Confessions of a Serial Swooper

It’s midday Memorial Day and, from our bedroom as I unpack from our long weekend, I hear the distinct sound of plastic ware falling noisily to the kitchen floor.

Husband sighs audibly, clearly irritated by the hassle of plastic ware clean-up as it disrupts his masterful creation of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for Big Brother, Little Brother and himself.

Later this evening, over a glass of wine and a Smirnoff, the following was an actual conversation between beloved Husband and myself.

Husband:  Will  you PLEASE clean out the kids plastic ware cabinet?  All the random sippy cups and plates and stuff that falls out whenever we open the cabinet door?  It’s such a mess in there.  Aren’t they done with this stuff anyway?   

(He’s right, of course.  The boys rarely use sippy cups anymore unless I’m feeling particularly and irrationally OCD about possible spills on my already dog-hair filled living room carpet.  And the truth is that I love those plastic plates.  I love them for their fabulous four-segment compartmentalization.  A little area for ketchup, another for a veggie, one for a fruit, one for a main course…I mean, come on.  Organized.  And, OCD loooooves organized.)

Me:  Ok.  But, what’ll  you give me?
H:  What?  Seriously?  For cleaning out the plastic?
Me:   Yeah.  What’s it worth to you?
H:  (playing along)  Ok.  Sure.  So, what do you want?
Me:  (pause.  thinking.)  I want a back rub.  A good one.  With no expectation of sex.
H:  (answers hyper-speed quickly)  Nope.  Can’t do it.  
Me:  (laughing)  Oh, come on!
H:  No.  You’re asking too much.  Can you keep it dirty?

Men.

Me:  Oh, never mind.  I’ll just clean out the cabinet.

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Tomorrow, being a Tuesday, not much of a loss.