“Ow!” I rubbed the bump on my forehead. Again.
If he leaves the kitchen cabinets or drawers open one more time I’m divorcing him! Oh! I never married him, did I? And that’s a big reason why.
The first time he took me to his house and showed me his kitchen I walked through it closing cabinet doors. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. The next time, the same thing. I have one bump on my head for every day of the week I go to his house. My shins are black and blue. You might think I’ve been battered by this very nice guy, but no! At least not by his hand. Just by his cabinet doors.
Why is it so hard to close a door or a drawer? It’s such a simple motion. Doesn’t take a lot of strength. No more so than closing the toilet seat, which he still forgets to do. But fortunately he has a guest bathroom that I use so I can avoid falling into the toilet. Honestly, it’s enough to drive me batty.
And then there’s his pants zipper. Seriously! What is it about closing things? Is there something Freudian about it? Does closure scare him? But don’t get me started. He’s just an old man, I guess. With old habits. Well, at least I can’t bump my head on his zipper.
I’ve been called a neatnik. Not by him. He’s too nice to complain about me. (Besides, I often cook for him.) But you might agree. I have been known to call him Pig-Pen. In my place I have a glass dining room table and leather dining room chairs. Whatever he touches has his finger prints on it. Like he’s been holding onto the table for dear life. I follow him around with windex. And when he gets up, the chair has crumbs on it. Even when the food he ate didn’t crumble. It’s a miracle. I give him an apron to wear when he eats so he doesn’t stain his shirt. He stains it anyway.
Most of the time, since I hate cleaning up after him only slightly less than I hate cooking, I go to his place and close the cabinets and the drawers and the toilet seats. Then I cook dinner and let him clean up.