If you’ve missed the first blog post about this, you can check it out here:Only At My Job
Since this beast decided to come back, I think we are gonna need a name. I want a name that is completely random and has absolutely no connection with someone that would go huntin’.
I had specifically asked him to take the trash out yesterday; his sole job. He texts me on my way home last night that they didn’t take it out, confident the holiday pushed it back a day. 15 minutes later, I hear the trash truck missing our home and moving on to the next. I was enraged slamming down my son’s backpacks down, having a Mommy Dearest moment. I slipped on my shoes, ran (slid) outside to catch up with the truck. Through careful negotiations (cleavage) I convinced him to come back around and get my trash.
If you haven’t read my post on my man maid, you can check it out here: I Have a Man Maid. Basically I have a certifiable individual come to my house bi-weekly and clean it.
Just as I was rolling my trash can back to the garage, I did a double take to notice Jack getting out of his car and walking up the drive. It happened in that slow motion kind of way and in my head was a slow motion, deep ‘NNNNOOOOOOOO’ occurring.
Why was he here at 8:05 am? This isn’t how this works. He is to clean my friend’s house first then come to my house; giving me ample time to miss him.
“Oh, your here early,” I said in my most I can’t stand you voice.
“Yeah, Sarah’s sick,” he said. Sarah is my friend who owns the house he was supposed to clean first.
“Oh no!” I said in a concerned tone. That bitch.
“So how have you been?” he asked.
“Oh good, working all the time.”
Despite not asking how he has been, it was clear that his question to me was clearly just a gateway for him to talk about himself and family.
“We’ve been stressed at our house,” he says, dramatically turning around like they do in a soap operas.
Despite my better judgement and not being an ass hole, I was forced to be sucked into this train wreck.
“Oh you know, the oldest boy just quit the FBI.”
“Oh rea…” He cut me off.
“Gonna go work for the NSA. That’s the group that listens to your phone calls. His job at the CIA was catching terrorist. He just called me and said dad, I can’t do it anymore. All the things they do.”
This was another attempt to get me to bite and I stood my ground.
Jack’s story telling capabilities are on par with a 90 year old narcissistic who didn’t make it through the 1st grade. Thanks to Jack, I was now an additional 5 to 10 minutes late for work.
As I waited in the drive thru at Starbucks, I text the following to my friend:
A few minutes ago, Sarah’s husband and son came over to play soccer with the boys in the basement.
“Please tell me Sarah didn’t take my text seriously about being angry that she was sick?”
“What? No, she hasn’t said anything about a text. Besides, she wasn’t sick. It was her day off and she didn’t want to be in the house when Jack was there.”
I refuse to do my husband’s laundry. He doesn’t do the sheets or the towels or the boys’ clothes. The least he can do (considering I work more hours than him) is his own laundry. I fee like the hamper has taken on a life of it’s own and I would like to log it. So here it goes:
HAMPER LOG-DAY 1
It’s been 2 weeks since my insides have been washed, dried and folded. I grow increasingly full to the point of overflow. I don’t even recognize myself anymore. See the bullet in front of me? That was me trying to end my life until I realized it was a Nerf bullet. Sigh. At one point I was hopeful my owner was going to wash me. I heard him downstairs in the laundry room opening the door, pondering the idea for a moment but decided against it. Let’s hope for better days.