Lazy Is As Lazy Does

I'm a lazy person. I don't pretend I'm not. I'm not sure when it started, though I'm sure the tendency has always been there. I knew the absolute bare minimum I could do in school to get by with a B and coast the rest of the semester. I knew exactly how many absences I was allowed in each class and used every single one (and continued to use more in the classes where the teachers didn't give a damn 'cuz I sure didn't, either!). My room growing up was never clean. My laundry system then was painful to my parents, but simplicity to my own unambitious mind - clothes scattered all over the floor were clean, clothes on the floor in the closet were dirty.

Once I got married, my laziness intensified. I know I'm a damn good mother and I'm a fantastic wife, but in all aspects of my life, I'm still lazy whenever I can get away with it. I own an iron, but not an ironing board. Hell, I don't even know where that stupid iron is. Our clothes are always wrinkled in our house. The only way to NOT have wrinkled clothes (as poor Jay has figured out, being the only person in the house who actually needs to look somewhat presentable in the not very forgiving financial industry) is to either get your clothes out of the dryer immediately when the cycle finishes, or send it through a few more times to see if the wrinkles go away. My laundry system for the last several years has been simple: Clean clothes come out of the dryer and go directly into a hamper, which then goes onto the pool table. This continues for all 5 billion loads of clothes our family of five goes through until the last load, which remains in the dryer until the cycle begins all over again. People have stopped being surprised when they come to our house and see socks and underwear all over; they know it's laundry time at the Williams house. My kids don't even have sock drawers; all the socks are pretty much the same size, color, and style, and remain in the hamper where they fish out a matching pair (or unmatching in Branden's case 'cuz he prefers the homeless look whenever possible).

I don't clean. Not counters, not toilets, not sinks, not floors, not windows. Jay, on the other hand, is the perfect husband. He is 100% anal. He cannot have disorder. Everything must be tidy and neat and clean at all times. As our kids were small, you would never know there were toddlers in our home. Jay was the magic fairy, constantly swooping down the second a toy was left alone for two seconds, just waiting to hurry and put it away and restore order to our otherwise chaotic life. We've had an unspoken agreement, Jay and I, for years - I cook, I shop, I do all the little annoying things he doesn't want to do, and in return he continues to pick up where I constantly leave off.

It's not always Peaches & Herb around our house, though, especially since we've left our really great house and are in this ridiculously small apartment. Most of my kitchen things are in storage and I have no desire to cook in the little closet masquerading as our "kitchen." Without my end of the bargain being held up, I can tell Jay's starting to feel, well, screwed over.

The other day there was a spot on the carpet that looked like cat puke or vomit or something previously eaten. I walked past it like usual. A few minutes later I saw Jay walk by and bend over to pick it up. Maybe since he's a foot higher off the ground, it looked more like an object rather than vomit, but in the end I was right. He got a handful of cat puke. I told him, though, that for a second there he had me rethinking my original assessment of what it was. He said, "So you saw it, but didn't pick it up?" "Well, yeah. Why would I pick it up? Then I'd be the one with a handful of cat vomit. No thank you."

Yesterday I saw there was a puddle of beer around his beer bottle on the counter. When he went back in the fake kitchen to get a drink I saw him get a napkin. I said, "Why did your beer spill?" He said, "I must've set it down too hard & it foamed over. But you obviously saw the spilled beer and just left it there?" I said, "Well, sure, it wasn't my beer. Plus, I wanted to make sure I remembered to ask you how it happened in the first place. It's a conversational piece." He called me something, but I didn't hear what it was.

The best one was the night before last. We were out running errands and I hadn't picked up the mail in a couple of days. I got out to grab it & came back with a huge stack. I told him, "Just so you know, it's not just YOU who has to deal with my laziness. Sometimes there are these little mailing cards that get put in the mailbox, but they're kinda hard to pick up 'cuz they're so thin, so I just shove them to the back of the mailbox and hope the mail lady will just take them out or put something under it so it's easier to pick up next time." He just looked at me and said, 'You are seriously the laziest fucking person I have ever met. Seriously. I'm not even saying that to compliment you because I know it makes you smile (it did). You are THE all time laziest person in the world."

See? That's how a good marriage works. Give and take. I give him stuff to pick up, and he gives me compliments. That's why we're still happily married all these years later. Give and take.