martial bliss, lemony lemonade style

In the early days of the Lemony Lemonade marriage things could be tempestuous but we were younger and more immature and finding our marriage legs. Mr. Lemony Lemonade was far more volatile and I was far more provocative and I don't mean that I walked around all day in garters and a teddy. We have since mellowed, accepted certain realities about each other's personalities, matured and learned that it is unlikely that holding one's breath and threatening mayhem is not the most productive way to bend another human to your will.

More recently, we have found our stride although I will admit that our testiness levels are directly correlated to Baby Girl's mood and temperment. If she is being a diva, we get snippy and crappy to one another. If she is being a petite ange, life is a box of chocolates. But that all goes out the window when Mr. Lemony Lemonade gets humpfy and sniffy. One might think that sniffiness isn't all that bad but believe me, no one can sniff so derisively, so snootily, so witheringly as Mr. Lemony Lemonade.

Tonight, I got the sniff and I knew that I was in big trouble because Baby Girl was hundreds of miles away with her grandparents, so this mood was clearly ALL MY FAULT and I knew that it was because I am a horrible, terrible, failure as a housekeeper.

Few people would know this or guess this even if they knew us very, very well but when it comes to keeping house, I am a complete and utter slob (not so surprsing) and Mr. Lemony Lemonade is fastidious and regimented (more surprising). Most people would assume that I am the fascist to his pacist but when it comes to housekeeping, I am the slobby bobby hedonist and he's freaking Mary Poppins. Tonight, the sniff was about unpacking. I got in and sat down because I hate doing worky stuff and he promptly, as he does every day, went off to do chores which of course, drives me insane because how can I be expected to relax and decompress when he insists on running around ensuring that the house is kept in order and that a high level of hygiene is maintained so that none of us contract dysentary or the plague. I know, I know, I bloody well know that I come from a long line of malingering lazy bones, so, really, my failing as a housekeeper isn't my fault, it's my parents' fault. If only they had done a better job raising me, I would be a better person. One time, my laziness even made Mr. Lemony Lemonade threaten to leave the country - my laziness was that irksome and vexing that it required not only just leaving my immediate vicinity, it was actually worthy of international flight.

So, because I am relentless in my pursuit of not being bossed, I pulled out all the stops, I argued like I was making a case before the Supreme Court on why the death penalty shouldn't be applied so, of course, no argument was too ridiculous, too flawed, too outrageous. I got so crazy at one point that I actually suggested that Mr. Lemony Lemonade's attempts to get me to do housework was tantamount to gender discrimination akin to 250 years of male oppression of women the world over. Somehow, I managed to justify the fact that I don't touch garbage, do laundry or mop floors by suggesting that asking me to touch garbage, do laundry and mop floors was just another example of the iron boot of white male oppression. Let's face it, I reached marital rock bottom with that line of argument.

Unfortunately, I have made my bed and as we speak, Mr. Lemony Lemonade is sleeping in it like a baby. My argument was so blindingly successful that he has bought my laissez faire stance and decreed that he is going to enjoy life more and clean up less. Fan-fricking-tastic, I say, but how in God's name am I going to manage this frightful situation that is sadly, of my own making. Clearly Baby Girl is just going to have to learn to do laundry or wear disposable clothing and eat only no-cook, garbageless foods and possibly, I can just buy like 150 pairs of underwear and sleep on top of the sheets; my sisters are depending on me and as God is my witness, I will not capitulate, even if it means dysentery and the plague because that would be better than having to admit that I might, just might be wrong.