Wednesday, October 29, 2008

Dischord and harmony – the good son

[Before Nonna came to stay, lived in England without an answering machine]

I stumble down the stairs in a morning fug with fog outside too. I am immediately assaulted by a smell, a smell of stale. I poke my head into the utility room. Typical! Just typical. The only domestic duty he has, and of course he hasn’t done it.

I stomp around gathering recycling and trash to haul it out to the bins wearing my dressing gown. At least my modesty is screened by the half light. I particularly hate going outside in the front garden semi-clad as it only adds grist to the mill in the neighbourhoood. It’s supportive evidence that we are really a clan of nudists rather than a family with tactile defensive issues. I yank the waist knot tighter so that I can leap on the 78 gallon garden waste bin in the hope that my full body weight can persuade it to pivot into a pushing position. After several attempts, flailing legs and a lot of heave hoing, it finally rewards me with a cup full of cold condensation and movement.

I rush back inside to replace the bin liners with the accompaniment of lots of banging and crashing, my kind of silent passive aggressive protest. As I scrub my finger nails he appears, disheveled and unshaven. I ensure that my face registers full pout, just so that there can be no mis-understandings.
He begins to empty the dish washer ineffectually and inefficiently.
“I’m amazed you got all the laundry put away,” he remarks cheerfully. Damn his eyes, how dare he be unexpectedly observant about domestic issues!
“Hmmm……took a long time.”
“It was great to come home and not trip over a dozen hampers outside the bedroom.” His fingers pluck the tines of a shiny clean fork.
“What time was that then?”
“Time?” He dings the fork on the counter, rhythmical.
“That you got home last night from work?”
“Oh only just after midnight……maybe one. You were asleep.” He moves the fork back and forth, one hand to the other.
“Ah.” The fork tines ping, musical.
“Did you sleep well,” I ask with thinly disguised venom, eying the single, finger- printed fork.
“No so much so. I woke at about three and couldn’t get back to sleep.” I do not probe, as it’s too early in the morning to discuss medical insurance, debt and finances. I am sorely tempted to snatch the fork and impale him in the forehead.
“So after an hour I gave up. I just had to know that she was o.k. so I got up and phoned home.”
“Oh. Was everything o.k. with Nonna?”
“What a relief, you must have been so worried.”
He beams quietly as he drops the fork in the drawer.


buffalodick said...

Jeez, you sound kind of cheesed off here... I'll come back later, after you put the fork down..

Marita said...

It has been rather warm here in Melbourne, Australia. It got up to 30C the other day. That was the same day hubby put a bag full of rubbish (including some left over fish) into the boot of our car. I think his plan was to drop it in the bin up the top of our rather steep driveway. Instead it got left in the boot of the car on a stinking hot day and now my car smells like stinky fish.

Once you are done going stabbity with the finger printed fork may I please borrow it?

Linda said...

You paint a great picture of taking the rubbish out while wanting to throw someone else in with it. I feel that way occasionally when I've asked Amanda to do it on a Sunday evening before I get home from work and it's not been done.

Of course, I'm in full dispatch uniform while I'm tossing cans by the curb so there's no danger of the neighborhood being flashed but still ... 'tis quite annoying!

Expat mum said...

Am with you friend. There's a plank of wood that has mysteriously appeared in my living room. I think the little one dragged it out from somewhere to use as a car ramp. I am just waiting to see how long it will take to be magically put back in its place!

Carrie Wilson Link said...

Let me at 'em!

BoufMom9 said...

Wow! You wrote perfectly what I feel EVERY SINGLE WEDNESDAY when a certain someone doesn't take the trash out...UGH!@