Domesticated Chaos

There I am narrating instances when I worked till I've mopped my own sweat, and his entire body transforms into a life-size "So?"

I don't like domestic chores. Neither does he. But the crucial difference is, he can pick the last clean plate on the shelf, and still be optimistic. Optimism in this case means me. In his imaginary tub of soiled clothes and piling vessels, he jumps in his naked eureka fervour, and I can see it in his eyes - 'housekeeping' is the missing label between 'wife' and 'woman!' 

Mylo's latest strategy is to keep quiet during a fight. Which, by the way, makes me look real bad. Having realised his silence pisses me off, he holds on it with desperation. This gradually raises my decibels and turns it into a fight. Now, fight is a bad word. Argument would have been better, if not for that wicked silence!

If we were on TV, it would've been the 'ordinary nagging wife' with the 'oh-so-poor-husband,' and you would have surfed away. That's besides the point - but in that minutest second, your sympathies would have been with the husband. Which, Your Honour, need to be actually sent in the opposite direction!

I'm no nag! If my friends were near, I'd have loved to brazenly complain over a bottle of beer - "How different singlehood was! What fun we had! No wonder people call marriage the forbidden laddoo!"

Since I can't, I decided I'll give him a taste of his own medicine. I laid out my carpet of silence. And oh that man! He's doubly silent now and he does little chores in silence, as if he was chopping wood for the nazi army. The nerve! Today is the third day of silence. Yesterday, I offered a slight smile in the shape of a white flag and he walked past it! 

Oh no Mr! I ain't goin on no guilt trip! I ain't gonna come and comfort you when I need the comforting! This is war! Here I come!