Those of you who know me personally and/or intimately are aware that my housekeeping skills leave something to be desired. The less kind among you might say that the something to be desired is a wrecking ball, but then again you might choose instead to remember that discretion is the better part of valor, or at least, for those of you who know me intimately, that I was good in bed. For those of you who know me personally but not intimately, well, I’ll just have to hope for the better part of valor thing.
In any case, even I will acknowledge that, when it comes to my apartment, I am not the neatest of men. This is a result of having too many books, too many papers, and only a velleity to do anything about it.
E.S., however, takes a less lackadaisical view of the whole thing. You may remember that in the past he has actually done something about the messiness of my apartment himself. Apparently, however, that was a one-time event, not to be repeated (or perhaps it was a Christmas gift and I can expect the same next December). In any case, he has been after me for weeks to clean my apartment. Every time the subject came up I would promise to do so, and, as evidence of my good faith, would pick up a piece of paper from the floor (making sure he saw me) and put it in the recycling box. Then I would blithely make my way through the obstacle course of books, papers, and dog toys to wherever my destination was.
Then, this morning, E.S. said he wasn’t having sex with me until I cleaned the apartment.
Let me tell you, you could do brain surgery in this apartment now.
Actually, that’s a lie, but the place is certainly cleaner than it was before his Lysistrata move. And, as subsequent events proved, brain-surgery clean wasn’t necessary for him to lift the moratorium.