Posts Tagged ‘Domestic’

By appearance the house is reminiscent to The Adams Family. However less in size and spooky hi-jinks.  It’s something you’d see on Hoarders. Squint worthy exterior with wet cigarette packs as lawn ornaments. Decorating the deceased & pale grass. Being internally grateful for the colored fall leafs blanketing the fucking outside ugly.

I live in a 6 unit house apartment building .  It’s a safe temporary pit stop for Eric and I. This being his actual apartment. Everything  paid for. Free Dish TV. A unit that was healthy enough in size that seemed promising. And affordable & clean. Even with the fickle toilet and small cramped spaces. We  inevitably make it work for now. No lease is also a benefit.

Often our days are pretty domestic in definition. He goes to work with suit in tact. Hair so OCD that it glides stiffly like a duo of fake tits. Grinning on with an Elvis arrogance to him.  Me bidding farewell while grumbling about some wifey clamor “But babe.. the cat needs a Cat Tree. Your so insensitive.”  Essentially just bitching to bitch.  But always finalizing with a coffee tasting kiss. We make a god damn great team.

Since I’ve started dialysis I’m legally denied the opportunity for a full-time job. Since receiving Medicare/Medicaid benefits. I am  allowed part-time jobs as long as it doesn’t pass a certain financial amount . Due to the kind monthly checks you receive while on disability. Because of this hold back.. I Kyle,  have become a Real Housewife of Spokane. Spending many of my days trapped into this housing cubicle.  Spying on my neighbors crazy antics while watching Dr.Oz and eating dry Top Roman. This is the chronicles of a male housewife.

The door closes and a rush of relief comes over me. Eric has left for work and my mind rushes for projects. My first  being depositing ass to couch. With Pookie as my arm pillow watching Court Television. Nothing arouses me more comically then white Southern trash suing over stolen DVD’s. Doing nothing to help their stereotype.  “This hoe stole mah two disc Miss Congeniality 2 dvd. Yaw Honor.”   Rule #1: Guilty Pleasure Eye Dung.  This is what one does in the  housewifey rulebook. It helps fuel our bored brain by making us feel better about ourselves *Mission Accomplished*.  So far my day has been productive.

As my brain saver clicks on i’m alerted by the time. “FUCK! i haven’t cleaned.” i yelp. Normally such a thought lies stagnant during my television cleaning hiatus. However, previously being lectured by the lack there of.  My leg begins shaking like Peg  Bundy. My ass inviting me to stay awhile. “Damnit Kyle!  Kathy & Hoda are totally smashed on todays show.” it sings. In what i imagine sounds like Charlie from Always Sunny in Philadelphia. My leg gains momentum as my ass anchors more into my sectional. This housewife shit sucks!

Housewife Rule #2 : Tenant People Watching.

“Damnit Dr.Oz,” i think. As his segments flair my hypochondria.  Multitasking by reference of WEB M.D. . Which is always like a Choose Your Own Adventure book. Except you always ends on Cancer. The music of Britney suddenly catches my good ear. I slowly sway my head to the catchy hook and answer my phone. “Babe, what’s going on?” I hear . Shit it’s Eric!  My wifey animal in-stinks kick in as I rush to turn kitchen sink on.  Allowing the water to sound out any suspicion of lazy. “Ahhh nothing baby. Just doing dishes.” i fib. My face warming with guilt. “Great job Tootsie Pop,” he praises. I slowly grab a dish examining. sigh!

The call ends and I begin attempting to pursue the rubber gloves. ALWAYS being inside out which adds another half hour to fasten them. Thus beginning the tedious process of dishes.  My scowl wrinkles my face as I scrub at the crusted cheese. Wife- blaming Eric for this slavery as he recommended Calizones last night. “Damnit we need paper plates,” i scold. Looking down at Pookies confused head tilt. This housewife shit sucks.

BAM. A loud noise shakes the complex. Hope that’s 2012’s relieving me early of dish duties i joke. Once again looking down at Pookie realizing I talk to him. Damn he’s a good listener though.  Does such a thing diagnosis me as crazy? Hell, I’ll ask WEB M.D. later.

I peek my head out to see a young man  near his car out front. Man in unit E, i see.  He’s pacing back and forth in a sort of meth manner. His face sunken as if  giving the Blue Steele. A golf like cyst occupies his forehead like a hanging mistletoe. I watch the glow of his cigarette run down the stick in urgency. This man has had better days.  So begins the chore of tenant watching as dishes can wait. This building complex is notorious for DALLAS themed drama. My eyes open with anticipation as I continue to creep.  This man seems to be aggressively packing up his things. A fight has clearly occurred?  Unsure as Unit E is a studio and houses two men. I create characters (nicknames) for everyone in this building. The skull face being the houseboy to the other tenant . An older man with two Pomeranian’s and a butt-plug walk. You do the math.

Skeletor begins tossing black garbage bags into the pea green Honda. Always a sign of a quick getaway. The bag rips indicating the quick manner of packing. Clothes overflowing and occasionally falling about . By now his cigarette greets the filter as he still moves in a neurotic rhythm. Fighting back his anger while picking up trails of dropped underwear.  Finally there is it. THE GLARE.

  [GLARE]  :  noun, verb, glared, glar·ing. Context to Relationships

  • Definition. Ahh hell no’s. You gone n’ fucked up.

Skeletors cold glare captures his units window. Our stoner upstairs neighbors to be exact. A minute and a half of piercing drama continues. His eyes speaking words his mouth can’t exhaust, i think? Trembling lip as he stares up at his partner. Who I believe is looking on in a Juliet manner. He shakes his head and lights another smoke. Unfortunately bringing attention to that god damn bowling ball of a cyst. Yet. As if a movies ending. The young man darts into his green machine and is off within blinks. A love story gone weary? I dunno? But most definitely a story that ended in sadness. A sadness I sympathize as if a soap opera. That pea green car never returned after that.  “Well Pookie!.. That was a fun show.”  I turn off my blinders.  Chore # 2 accomplished. Productive as hell today, i’d say.

Housewife Rule #3: Procrastination Nation

3:30 pm. “SHIT.” This time of day causes the most anxiety. Eric is going to be home soon. Normally my alarm is when Anderson Coopers awful talk show is coming to an end.  I use it as an alert to get my procrastination into gear. Usually such a thing involves hiding clothes in drawers, quick garbage pick ups and a Febreeze hosing.  Like OJ I whip those tight rubber gloves on and violently abuse those dishes clean.  It’s perhaps a super power that I can manage this. But usually the result is less than satisfactory. Though enough to where my daily wife duties are met with contentment.

I do my final hose through as the smell of “Winter Cinnamon Frost” hot boxes our little apartment. I strategically turn on fans using toes if have too. Watching as Pookies face reads dumb shit at me. I grab our mini vacuum and rush to clean the dog & cat hair. While still watching Anderson as if a timer counting down.  I fall to me knees and begin coiling the vacuums cord. Sweat tickling my cheek as I focus at the TV.

Credits roll. The key enters  the door handle as it begins to seizure. I run to the kitchen to drop the vacuum off. Admiring my quick clean job. Maybe even giving Pookie a quick eye wink of cockiness.  “Hey Babe,” I hear mumbled from the living room.  I catwalk out from the kitchen with a shit eating grin. “Wow the house looks amazing!,” he says. Closely examining the house with a level of  doubt in his voice.  ” A hard day of being a Wifehubby.” i respond. Wiping the sweat from my cheek dramatically in hopes he sees. “You have worked hard today. The house looks good. Did you work on this all day?”

I pause for a moment and smile back. Allowing my cryptic smile to answer that.  I realize my cleaning duties are rather lackluster or lazy. And to be honest I am thee worst at being domestically wifey. And Eric knows it. And loves me anyway.  Definitely not bred for such things. But as I await my kidney and continue my crusade as a househusband. I can only imagine strengthening my skills… that or strengthening my short cuts 🙂

End*

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