On the list of Men’s Least Favorite Activities, cleaning trumps watching The Notebook and asking for directions. Spending the summer sans roommates, I’ve been solely responsible for cleaning up my mess and the mess left behind by my man friend. Don’t get me wrong; throwing out empty Powerade bottles and Chinese food containers is hardly heavy lifting, but I’m aware that the cleanliness of my apartment depends on me. I left him on his own in my apartment when I went to New York for a weekend in June, and on my way home via Amtrak, I got a text from him:
Thanks for letting me pregame at your place. I cleaned up a bunch of our mess (mine n urs) while I was over. Should be in good shape.
My expectations were relatively low, but my interest was piqued by visions of him vacuuming and doing the dishes. Returning home killed my dreams in Nightmare on Elm Street fashion; the apartment looked like the aftermath of a frat party.
Given my menial domestic expectations of my man friend, imagine my surprise coming home yesterday to a spotless room and a neatly made bed.
My teddy bear Wilbur, a Valentine’s Day present, was looking seriously badass. Compared to earlier bed making efforts, this job was fucking stupendous. On the Iron Chef rating scale of taste, bedding, and originality, I give it full marks across the board. I don’t need a man that vacuums, but this sort of gesture is a whole lot hotter (and funnier), than roses.
Don’t cook. Don’t clean. No man will ever make love to a woman because she waxed the linoleum – “My God, the floor’s immaculate. Lie down, you hot bitch.” ~Joan Rivers