I just don't know if I am ready to get a dog again.
For one thing, I am finally okay with the way my house smells. Most times. Not after Robin has just come home from a long day on the boat, of course, but I suppose I can't fault the man for digesting his meals. What I can fault him for, however, is that after all these years of my training him, he still does everything wrong, post poop speaking. Everyone knows the proper order is:
3. Wash hands
4. OPEN the bathroom window
5. Light the candle
6. Spray the spray
7. Uncork the aromatic oils
8. Bleach everything
9. Buy all new towels, shower curtain, window shades, toothbrushes and light bulbs
10. Move to a new house.
Robin, however, likes to kick it bachelor style:
1. Announce the impending arrival of a poop while kissing me hello
2. Take off his pants in the hallway
3. Not notice that we have dinner guests in the living room
4. Go into the bathroom and not shut the door completely while doing his business, so he can tell me about his day
5. Flush (optional)
6. Wash and dry hands
7. Shut the bathroom window
8. Open the bathroom door
9. Sit down at the dinner table.
We don't get a lot of dinner guests anymore.
Then there's the fight:
Me: God. It stinks in here. Close the fucking door.
Him: My poop does not stink.
Me: You don't get to decide if it stinks. Other people get to decide if it stinks. And it stinks.
Him: Why are you in a bad mood?
Me: I'm not in a bad mood. Well, now I am because it stinks and you didn't close the fucking bathroom door.
Him: I remembered to close the window. But do I even get credit for that?
Me: You are supposed to OPEN the window. And CLOSE the door. God.
Him: Are you getting your period? Because you are really uptight.
Me: I went through menopause nine years ago.
Him: What's for dinner? It smells really good in here.
And then my head explodes and I die.