Sometimes, when I wake up in the morning, I just know it is going to be a good day.  However, this weekend, I did not have that experience.  My husband went on a rampage with the laundry.  It piled up and I admit that I had been seriously slacking on it.  However, to my defense, it takes all of my energy just to maintain the house, cook dinner and watch the kids.  Laundry always seems to be on the backside of my list of things to do.  It’s not that it’s not important, it’s just that it is …. you know… downstairs.  In the land of “where no one can see it anyway.”

I dread weekends like this.  My husband doesn’t do household chores because he enjoys doing them.  He does them because he likes to lord it over my head.  Something he does quite frequently.  He is a clean freak that fails to really keep things clean.  He throws things on the floor, makes messes here and there and does not always clean them up.  I have to admit that sometimes I get frustrated picking up after him for the same things.  Yet, I don’t complain or nag, I just do it.  On the other hand, when he does something, he continues to mention it throughout the day and erode my self-esteem by making it seem that he is more efficient than I am.

I am not necessarily neat.  Though I am organized in my own silly way.  My desktop might be cluttered with a thousand different things, but I know where each thing belongs.  The mail might be piled up on the counter, but I am fully aware of where everything is.

So, as my husband walks past me for the umpteenth time with a basket of laundry and I sit here blogging and doing homework, I must say that a big part of me feels inferior.

In our relationship, we have switched roles to a degree.  I require more sex, i’m less tidy and detailed and i’m always late (not intentionally).  He requires less sex, more tidy than I am and is more detailed and HATES to be late.

My only hope is that we somehow compliment eachother.  On a night like tonight, however, our differences seem to drive us miles apart.  I really hate this feeling.

In short, he stresses over spilled milk; I don’t.