Having lived in a housework deficit for three, germ infested, weeks; Cheryl was as eager as an alcoholic in a liquor store. (I am convinced her need for clean is a symptom of an addictive personality, but don’t tell her I said that.)
“John, would you like to do some mopping this morning?”
Good thing I wasn’t eating at the time, I might have needed medical attention. Although I was itching to once again prove the age old axiom, “there may be no such thing as a stupid question, but there’s a shit load of stupid answers,” I picked up the mop and did my husbandly duty without further comment.
Little does she know I’m thinking three moves ahead. I’m banking on this token effort getting me out of one more week of yard work. Keep you fingers crossed,