I may have to go back to my old adage, "he who cares the most, cleans it". Having been suffering from a bout of winter-based depression (this stupid apartment gets NO SUNLIGHT), I let the cleaning slide. Why yes, there are two people living here!
Once upon a time, when AgtOrange and I were fresh into one another and I was working a thankless, shitty job that didn't actually pay me worth a damn, AgtOrange proposed I quit and stay at home. He made enough so I could do that. Now, I hate cleaning more than I hate working as a general rule, but I hate feeling lazy and shiftless more than both combined. So I cleaned and cooked and organized, etc. My rational was if I took care of the house, it freed AgtOrange up to get more work done. So maybe I wasn't directly contributing, but I was surely indirectly contributing.
Only it doesn't matter if the house gets clean or not. AgtOrange will happily live in dust and gross, eating nothing but takeout/delivery, with nary a clean sock or pair of underwear to his name. His work will still get done even if he's sitting in a filthy home office. I quickly discovered that not only were my efforts unappreciated, they were entirely unnecessary for anyone but myself. I'm the one who cares if my body odor offends people when I check the mail or have to go outside, if my clothes are wrinkly from sitting too long in the basket, if the sink is full of dirty dishes, or if the floor is free of nasty socks and underwear.
I'm the one who cares if my meals are healthy and nutritious as well as delicious. I'm also the one who breaks out in hives from dustmites and has allergies and asthma. I'm the one who gets upset when only my sweatpants fit because I haven't gotten enough exercise and I'm the one who gets cabin fever from sitting too long staring at the same four walls.
Which is not to say I don't make a mess. Clutter and me are long-time acquaintances , but I can't stand dirt or grime so when things get dusty I feel wretched and bitchy. And nothing bothers me more than a dirty kitchen or bathroom. The rest of the house could be falling into decay with piles of dirty laundry and books that have to be waded through to get anywhere, and I'll still be scrubbing the kitchen or bathroom into immaculate sterile beauty.
But I can't seem to keep up. There are two of us, for one thing, and I'm still somewhat in recovery from this long standing illness, not to mention the winter blahs. I can manage about 2 or 3 things in a day, which have to be done the minute I get up before I'm just worn out. Lately I've been getting up at 1400 while AgtOrange gets up at around 1600, often grumbling about how much noise I'm making. Too bad; if we woke up at a decent time this wouldn't be an issue. I really prefer to get up before noon. Today I woke him at 1530 while I was scrubbing the tub. In the 1.5 hours I'd been the only one out of bed, I had put the dishes in the dishwasher, made coffee, clipped and filed my nails, left a message for my doctor, sorted out two loads of laundry (which he said he was going to do YESTERDAY), wiped down the kitchen, and scrubbed the tub so I can take a bath later. I still need to clean out the fridge, figure out what meals I'm cooking today (thinking bacon, mushroom/broccoli omelets, and homemade squash biscuits tonight for dinner), clean around the bedroom area, and make sure that the laundry actually gets washed AND PUT AWAY BEFORE IT WRINKLES.
I just get so pissed lately because he isn't taking care of the house and I hate this place. I've always hated this apartment. I should never have moved in. No matter what I do, it just doesn't feel like my space; I'm a permanent visitor in my own home. When did I become Felix Unger? The only good thing I can say about being PMS-y is that my house finally gets cleaned.