My wife and I lived apart for a time, quite a long time. Not by choice. Unforeseen job changes, children finishing school, college bills – the stuff of life – forced distance upon us.
That book has closed, and we are together again. All is good.
Except …
We’re re-newbie roomies adjusting to sharing a household. And let me say, after more than 30 years with my dear spouse, I’ve discovered I married a wacko.
(She normally reads these little essays. 30-Second Read will publish any rebuttal.)
Show us the evidence, you say. Fair enough.
Alone, my weekly grocery bill totaled around $30. Three days ago, I schlepped to the store with her list, pocked with items I’d never heard of. Total: $90.17.
Case closed.
No? More evidence?
She prefers a washrag at the kitchen sink. I’m a sponge man. Spashrag? Wonge? Irreconcilable difference.
More?!
I love our dog, but he’s a dog. “Quit barking. Get your butt in here!” She l-o-v-e-s our dog, and he’s the Prince of the Manor. “Oh, s-w-e-e-t-i-e. Are you cold?”
I’m the wacko, you say.
…
Oops.
I can attest to the superior efficacy and hygiene of dish cloths. They can be washed every couple of days easily–or more often–and cover a wider area than sponges. Sponges are harbingers of bacteria. Sorry, Jeff, your wife wins on this one.