Last night my husband washed one pan.
One.
Then he came into the living room and said, “I cleaned the kitchen for you.” Sir. The kitchen still had plates, cups, crumbs, a sticky mystery by the stove and a fork somehow under the toaster.
He washed the pan he needed for eggs in the morning.
I said thanks, because apparently I was raised by women who wanted peace more than justice.
Then he got irritated that I did not seem grateful enough. I have cleaned that kitchen roughly four thousand times without holding a press conference.
Am I supposed to clap because he briefly encountered soap?
Throw the chair out and blame structural failure.
I would praise him exactly once, in the same tone used for a toddler.
A grown man can wash a pan without a documentary crew.
Thank him if you want, but nobody needs a standing ovation for touching soap.
The bar is underground and he still wants applause.
That recliner has become a dependent.
I am educated, mature and still furious about imaginary labor awards.
That chair has sentimental value because he is sentimentally attached to not moving.