Originally Posted by melysion
Originally Posted by Huge
Oh and kick your flatmate up the bum, he's not helping at all by the sounds of it.
I wasnt particularly impressed by the mess, it has to be said.
I hope you said it to him.
*see that two posts came in before I posted this*
I ripped my husband up one side and down the other (many years ago). His brother was driving several hundred miles down to us to return the truck he had borrowed, staying for the weekend and then flying home. I cleaned our entire 2 bedroom house and stocked the pantry and fridge with all sorts of food. The day before Joe was expected to arrive, my sister's boyfriend called and told me she was in the hospital having emergency surgery for a burst tubal pregnancy. He fell apart over the phone, he was so worried.
I called my parents who were vacationing with family in Maryland (we lived in California; me, 125mi south was my parents, another 125mi south from there was my sister, so sister was 250mi south of me). The parents were flying home that night, but called the airline and were able to get switched to an earlier flight. I called my husband and told him what was up and I was driving down to Fresno to be at the hospital. When the folks landed they rented a car and drove straight to the hospiatal from the airport.
My sister came through the surgery fine, losing the pregnancy and that ovary and fallopian tube. When she was on-the-mend, Mom and I did some shopping for new bedding/towels and went to freshen up my sister's house and do some cooking to put in the freezer so she wouldn't have to cook while she recuperated. When she came home and seemed like everything would be okay, I left to drive home. The next day was my 29th birthday.
I walked into a war-zone when I got home. It looked so bad, I just wanted to turn around and drive to my Mother's, but after driving 250mi I didn't have it in me to back-track another 125mi. Hubby was lightly "lit" and happy to see me, and all I could do was stare and cry.
EVERY dish, bowl, glass and piece of silverware we owned appeared to be dirty and scattered all over the house, in the kitchen, living room, bedrooms and even the bathroom. There were empty and/or half drank soda and beer cans sitting on all of the flat surfaces and the floor with cigarettes put out in them. Bedding was rumpled in huge, messy piles on both beds. Damp towels on the bathroom and bedroom floors. Guitars, amplifiers and their connecting cords snaking all over the living room.
They must have had a great time.
I let him have it.
I told him I had cleaned our home to welcome his brother and they had disrespectfully destroyed it. I had been gone to be supportive of my sister having emergency surgery, drove for 3 hours to come home to him and did he remember that the next day was my birthday? ...and that the next day, when I woke up on my birthday
, he would be gone to work and I would get to wake up to this
delightful mess and I spread my arms wide to encompass the mess. Happy *bleep* Birthday to me.
Of course, he felt lower than worm-poop, but I sent his tipsy butt to bed and I began collecting garbage and dishware to wash. I could NOT go to sleep with my house in such disorder. Now, had he not been innebriated, I would have demanded he stay up and do most of the work at my side until everything had been put to order, but I do not mess around with anyone if they've been drinking. Luckily, he doesn't drink to excess, but at that time of my life, I was still conditioned to give innebriated people a wide berth.
We had a talk the next day, about how one of my responsibilities was to make sure our budget was taken care of, bills paid and staples bought to sustain us. It was my duty to not spend that money unwisely and create a hardship upon him to where we would be worrying about money and needing to earn more. Then I pointed out that on the flip side of that record, his responsibility to me was to not make my job (keeping the house in order) any harder by being disrespectful of the efforts I took to keep it clean.
It helped. For a little while, at least. Anyhow, I guess my OCD is able to keep up with his slobby ways. ...and I figure I certainly earn the bit of money I spend on myself or the pets!