I'm beautiful and I know it. And so do you. Move along.
What?In response to three truths and one lie, I present the first revealed truth, in story form.
Chip has a rocky relationship with the cats. When we were first dating there was this sort of foggy shield of love that did not allow me to see that he tolerated the cats, but didn't necessarily LOVE them. Actually, I take that back. Chip did a great job of telling me and showing me that he loved the cats even though he was, firstly, ALLERGIC to them; and was, secondly, MOSTLY TOLERATING them. They were amusing. And sweet. And he loved them for my sake.
In fact, when he called my parents to ask them if he could marry me (okay, it was really more of a conversation along the lines of, "Hey I'd really like to marry your daughter...")--- the story goes that my mom had only one question for him and it was this: Just tell me you like the cats.
As we snuggled into married life, life with each other and life with, yes, THE CATS; a few things became clear.
1. Chip is painfully allergic to the cats.
2. Chip does love the cats, in small measures of snuggling and lovefests.
3. Chip is not a fan of the messier side of cat ownership. Namely, anything involving cat bodily fluids. Like poop and pee and yes, VOMIT.
The first few times he stumbled on to the whole remarkable extravaganza known as THE HAIRBALL Chip was visibly shaken and horrified. There were questions on whether or not this was normal, and should we be sending the cats to a specialist because seriously WHAT THE FREAK WAS THAT THING ON THE FLOOR?
I became the Resident Cat Vomit Picker Upper by default. And still am. I don't think Chip can actually face a pile of cat sick without getting physically ill himself. He's just not made that way. This has gone to such extremes that Chip will actually leave a big ole pile of puke on the floor for HOURS until I come home to clean it up. Or when I was working he would actually be such a dear to call me on the phone to let me know that I had some nice vomitty presents waiting for me when I got home. Right.
This caused some problems when I was pregnant with Bean because suddenly the vomit made me vomit. The only sure thing that did, actually. During the pregnancy there were more than a few spirited discussions about who should clean up the cat sick.
As soon as Bean was in the world I returned to my throne of Cat Puke Picker Upper Extraordinaire. And that is the end of that story. And reduces the possibilities of lies to three.
Do you have any jobs in the house that no one else will do?
7 comments:
My hubby tolerates my cats b/c I had them pre-him, but otherwise he'd be perfectly happy to be feline-free. I, too, am the designated sick picker upper and nothing irritates me more than just opening my eyes in the morning to be told "one of the cats threw up". Thanks so much, good morning to you too.
I am the designated sick picker upper too! It's like he sees the pile, but will just wait for me to come home to tell me he saw it. And if I see it first and say, "Oh, one of the cats puked," he'll act all surprised, even though I suspect he saw the pile first.
I am also the designated phone-call maker for things like appointments or getting quotes for house repairs or fighting with insurance/credit card/mortgage companies, which SUCKS.
I am the designated laundromat operator.
Designated accountant (balancing the checkbook, paying the bills, etc...).
Designated baby feeder (obviously... since my husband is not equipped to do it).
Designated gardener (although since I was pregnant and had a lot of other things on my plate, my husband DID help clear out rocks, till soil, and plant things).
Designated kid vomit cleaner upper. He claims that he he has to clean up vomit, he will vomit too.
Designated hard floor mopper. I do it on my hands and knees, and that is the ONLY way I like it done. I hate mops and we don't have one. Needless to say, he's not interested in doing it the way I want it done.
Designated "get all the kids ready for Church" referee on Sunday morning. Although he usually gets up 10-30 minutes before it's time to go to relieve me while I top off the tank on the baby. So I guess I get help with it if I'm not done by the time he gets up.
Designated bed-maker... if I want it to look perfect.
Designated milk shake maker. Hubby likes milk shakes and I make them for him.
Designated breakfast maker... most of the time... husband hates mornings.
Designated-do-anything-else-that-I'm-obsessive-about-because-I-don't-trust-anyone-else-to-do-it-the-way-I-want-it-done person.
(Oh, we don't really go to a laundromat... but even if I ask the hubby to START a load... he claims "I don't know how to run the washer and dryer").
For similar reasons, I am the designated dog poop picker upper. And I can guarantee that Mr. J will add to the mess if I send him out to do it. He has an instant gag reflex as soon as he even sees the poo. However, we did discover when I am out of town that he can take one of his little dust-face-masks things from the workshop, drop a few drops of lavendar in it, and be fairly good to go, with only a few gag sounds. Hooray for small miracles!
Brad is horribly, terribly allergic to all cats but our little deceased Buddy.
I wasn't thinking I was Designated Anyoner, but then I read comments.
I am, in general, the designated phone call maker and accountant, although we've started splitting some of the former. Most everything else, we're more even on, or Brad does.
I live alone so I do it all! No fair! Hopefully that'll be changing soon enough and maybe I won't have to kill spiders anymore.
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