Congratulations, Steve, you really pulled the wool over my eyes on this one.
I totally didn’t notice how you strategically maneuvered from room to room to avoid me as I cleaned the whole apartment this afternoon. That was a real Catch Me If You Can operation you had going, Frank Abignale. One day, you’ll have to tell me how you pulled it off.
You were so incredibly subtle when you realized that I was almost done mopping the bathroom floor, so you booked it out of the living room, knowing it was next on my list. And when you panic-dove under the dining room table just as I passed by with the Swiffer? Wow, it was like you were wearing an invisibility cloak woven of high-quality stealth.
I’m not sure what you thought would happen when I walked past you in the hallway and you froze like a statue in between our framed IKEA “art.” Was I supposed to think you were part of the collection? I suppose you were successful, considering how I wouldn’t pay more than a nickel for any of you at a rummage sale. But it wasn’t worth having that conversation, so I pretended not to notice you.
I must confess that when I got to the bedroom, I did see you hiding behind the floor-length curtains (it’s kind of hard to miss the shape of my useless husband frozen like a statue with his big dumb flip-flopped feet sticking out from behind the drapes). And yes, if you suspected that I spent an extra twenty-five minutes in there pretending to clean just to torture you, you would be right. It was either that, or loudly ask the cat “Where’s Steve? Do you see him? I can’t find him ANYWHERE!” like I was playing hide-and-seek with a toddler who had yet to master the concept of object permanence.
Maybe I’m being a bit too harsh on toddlers though. After all, Steve Jr. followed me around in an attempt to help. I say “attempt,” of course, because his tiny cordless vacuum doesn’t actually work (perhaps that has something to do with the half dozen brightly colored balls that bounce around inside as he uselessly pushes it from room to room). And while I appreciated his commitment to dusting, some may argue that waving a dusty rag over his head like it was a lasso did more harm than good. Still, I couldn’t help but feel grateful for Steve Jr. as I watched the dust rain down on his freshly cleaned playroom like it was snow falling on a driveway I just shoveled (which has happened to me more than once, since you never offer to shovel, either). At least the little guy was trying, which is more than I can say for you, Steve.
But far be it from me to disparage your character without mentioning how you magically appeared out of thin air (after three hours of seeing only fleeting glimpses of the back of your head as you sprinted away from me) just as I was bagging up all the trash to ask if I needed help with “anything—anything at all!” Golly gee, do ya really mean it, Steve? Anything at all? Whatever did I do to deserve a husband like you?
No, really. Tell me. I want to know where I went wrong so I don’t make the same mistake finding my next husband.
Now take out the trash, you useless fuck.