My dear husband is in “project mode” this weekend. His ideas of what need to get done around here and mine are often at odds. Our house can look like it’s been ransacked and the Christmas decorations are still lingering after Easter, the sink piled high from breakfast at 4pm, and I’ll find him in the garage with his backpack leaf blower, cleaning that old musty space within an inch of its life.
You could eat off the floor in here, he’ll brag.
Ummm. . . okay, I say, glancing back at the house.
But looking at the freshly blown and scrubbed painted cement floor, I admit that he might be right. My friend, Nicole, calls it housepride. She says you either have it or you don’t. It’s doing not necessarily crucial household tasks (like emptying the dishwasher or sweeping the kitchen floor, which I should mention, he does his fair share). It’s more random tasks like this:
Yep. They’re polishing our front door with lemon oil. Random, right? He’s really into lemon oil these days. I’ll catch him taking some to the dining room table with an old rag and say, What the heck is going on in here? He doesn’t look up from what he’s doing except at the end, in exasperation, when it seems I don’t appreciate his efforts. The table isn’t going to oil itself, you know. Someone has to do these things.
As long as we’re clear that it’s not going to be me.