sick puppy

We have two bathrooms. We do. Sort of.

The problem is, one is not all that habitable. Even with the new toilet it’s pretty dang gross. Hubby has been calling it his for the past twenty-some-years. And it pretty much resembles a guy’s bathroom. Picture two college guys living in an apartment. Yah, pretty disgusting. The tub is beyond repair, stained beyond hope, and the grout has a life of it’s own. Literally! There are approximately eleven empty shampoo, conditioner and body wash bottles in the bottom, an old net scrubbie, and a razor blade lying there.

A good wife would clean it for her hubby.

Not me.

This week we have eight people living at my house — seven of them girls. Tracy had to use the bathroom the other day and couldn’t wait for the line at my bathroom. She was gagging just thinking of going into hubby’s area. But then she said, “Is this a new toilet?” and was able to relieve herself of a bursting bladder.

I’m fine to use that bathroom, occasionally. I just don’t put my glasses on and try to hum a nice tune while I’m there.

Here’s the way I look at things. [Side bar, I know I’m wrong. I know I will be judged at heaven’s gate for not cleaning my husband’s bathroom. I know!] I clean the kitchen, the living room, the dining room. I do all the laundry, 98% of the dishes. I do the front yard. I put out the garbage when hubby forgets his one weekly job on Friday mornings. I’ve been feeding and watering the horses for five weeks. I get my oil changed myself and rotate tires. And I clean my own bathroom, occasionally.

So I feel entitled to leave his bathroom for him. I know it’s mean. I know!

Mikelle would never do that. Tracy wouldn’t. I’m sure my mother is disappointed in me and is nudging me right this moment to feel a little guilt. Perhaps me writing this is her doing, her inspiration from up there where her spirit lives now. She’s saying, “Now, Dorothy, you know it’s a wife’s sacred duty to keep the bathrooms clean. Both of them.”

I clean 21 toilets a day at work. I clean the C-wing, the Performing Arts and the Commons area toilets all the time. But for some reason I can’t bring myself to clean hubby’s bathroom. Maybe there is something deep-seated going on here. Maybe it is total rebellion. Maybe it’s a power struggle. Maybe I’m one sick puppy.

I always thought that we’d  split the housework right down the middle. We both work long and hard. We both come home tired. But I have to clean and cook and do laundry and hubby goes to bed. So, my mean, passive-aggressive self refuses to do that one little thing.

I’m totally ashamed.

Who needs therapy? I’ve talked this through, feel really crappy and will tackle  his bathroom as soon as I get home.


On the other hand, maybe I can pay the grand-kids $20 to clean it really well.