Tuesday, May 19, 2009


As of today I am officially on strike. I shall no longer:

1) Pick dirty clothes up off the bathroom floor and deliver them to the hamper.

2) Sweep the wood floors that extend throughout our house which get covered in dog hair on a daily basis. (I am surprised that Satan isn't bald by now.)

3) Pick up dirty cups, glasses, dishes, etc., off the coffee table and walk them into the kitchen to be with all the other dirty dishes waiting patiently to be washed.

4) Explain that the stench coming from the kitchen is actually caused by the overflow of garbage which needs to be removed and taken to the big, plastic containers found in the garage. (They have lids. Use them.)

5) Ask all members of the household to gather in the bathroom so I can point out that when tissue can no longer precariously perch on top off the trash mountain it's time to remove said trash mountain.

6) Replace the toilet paper roll on a daily basis. (Apparently, we have a habit when we go that causes us to remove the entire roll of toilet paper and set it on the counter next to the sink.)

In addition to the above, I shall not waste my valuable, precious "relaxing time" completing such menial tasks as grocery shopping, cooking meals, sorting laundry, washing laundry, folding laundry, and putting said laundry away. I shall not choose to wipe up Kool-aid spills from the counter (and the floor), scrub the toothpaste spittle off the bathroom mirror, or make the bed.

Furthermore, I will no longer keep track of various things for various people. For example:

"Did you check the hot lunch choices for tomorrow? If you need to make a cold lunch, you'd better do that."
"Your brown trouser socks are in the top left hand drawer of your dresser, near the back."
"Where's your retainer? You need to wear that every day or your teeth will shift."
"The dog has been whining at the door for the past ten minutes - can someone please let it out?"
"The dog has been barking at the door for the past ten minutes - can someone please let it in?"

Yes, I realize that wives and mothers across America are suffering the same fate as I. The sad truth is I'll probably break after three days because the house will be so utterly disgusting I won't be able to handle it. Big V is good about helping.... so long as I continually point out I need help. The girls, well, that's my own fault. They're spoiled beyond belief when it comes to actual physical labor. I don't think either of them have ever completed a required task without whining, complaining, crying, or protesting the unfairness of it all.

But before I crack completely and end up in our state mental hospital, I'm going to try a mental vacation called "Strike." I'll keep you posted... I'm curious to see if anyone in my household will notice the rapid decline of the environment, or if they're just going to be sitting back with their feet up enjoying their free time, thinking "If Mom wants it cleaned up she'll do it herself... she always does...."

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