A Mess of a Man

I’m sitting in bed right now watching The Mentalist (I love Simon Baker), and it literally sounds like a herd of wild elephants running up the stairs. Oh wait. It’s just Mark. I can’t even begin to tell you how many times I’ve asked him to try and walk up the stairs a little quieter. A little more gently.

Here's a visual for you...

And, you know what his pocket response is to me? “I’m not a ballerina, you know. What can I tell you, you didn’t marry twinkle toes.” He usually says this as he’s roughly moving around our bedroom, throwing his jeans here and his shirts there.

I sit with my lips pursed, and let out a sigh.

Then there’s the usual scene that awaits me in the bathroom every morning. A crazy ass mess. It looks like a tsunami has hit. There’s water all over the place. The toothpaste is left open and sticking all over the counter. A towel is draped over the door and there’s another one on the floor. It’s a disaster.

So, I ask Mark, in my sweetest voice possible, “Honey, do you think you could be a little neater? It’s really not nice for me to walk into this.”

Not even looking at me, Mark says, “What can I tell you? You didn’t marry a neat freak.”

No twinkle toes or neat freaks here. Just your average meat loving, beer guzzling, football lovin' guy.

I stand with my hands on my hips, my lips pursed, and let out a sigh.

I go about my business, cleaning as I go, until I see the laundry basket. But, not the basket itself, what’s on the floor next to the basket. His fucking underwear, socks and undershirts.

I go apoplectic.

Does he not see the fucking laundry basket? Is it that much of a stretch to open the lid and put the fucking clothes in the fucking basket? Why must they repeatedly end up on the floor NEXT to the basket? If they can make it that close to it, can’t they make it inside? Can’t they? Can’t they?

I yell for Mark. He’s downstairs and comes running up, yes, like a herd of elephants. I’m standing next to the laundry basket with the clothing on the floor, and say, “Marcus, let me ask you…is there any reason why you can’t put the clothes three inches to the left, inside the basket?”

He looks at me, smiles sheepishly, and says, “What can I say, I know you’ll pick it up.”

Enough said.

I stand there with my head shaking, hands on my hips, lips pursed, and let out a big sigh. Marriage.

What drives you stark raving mad?