How Did She Ever Live Without Me?

As a member of our household, I have a certain number of jobs. We're not talking about a large number of jobs, and they are definitely not very complicated. But I lie to myself and pretend they're essential, and that I'm pulling my share of the weight around the house. That process makes me feel better when I'm sitting on my ass playing my 9th online poker tournament of the day while Baby is mopping the floor.

I used to actually be much worse. When I lived with my family (my mom, then later my kid brother), I would avoid any and all household chores until they reached a breaking point. Things like making a tower of garbage in the trashcan rather than taking it out to the curb, or piling the dishes in the sink until the cabinets were completely bare. I knew that, eventually, someone would take care of them for me. And it worked.

This really drove my ex fiance nuts. I'm fairly sure that one of her motivations in our break up was her very real fear that she was going to spend the rest of her life cleaning up after me. She dodged a bullet on that one. Although after we broke up I lived on my own for the first time in my life. And in that time I gained an appreciation for housework. Turns out there isn't a magic fairy who comes along to take the trash out. In fact, when I spoke with the ex a few months after we'd split up, I proudly told her that she'd be happy to know that there were currently no dirty dishes in my sink. Her response: "My compliments to your girlfriend." Say all you want about Osama bin Megan, but at least she was pretty funny.

So I've tried to make a point to be better for Baby. I always ask about my chores, and I try to take pride in the few that I have. And I've got a pretty sweet deal, as I don't have many. They fall into four basic categories: reaching, fixing, checking and mashing.

Reaching is the easiest, as all I have to do is, well, reach. I'm nearly six one, so I can reach whatever is on the top shelf with relative ease. Baby cannot, so just by virtue of raising my hands above my head I have demonstrated how she couldn't possibly live without me.

Fixing isn't so bad either, as it usually involves the computer or the TV. Since Baby does know a lot about these things, I get to impress her with my finely honed skills. I also add in big words that make me look that much more knowledgeable and buy me extra time. "Sure Honey, I can move the DVD player into the bedroom. But it might have to wait a few hours, as I'll need to find a flux capacitor in my toolbox. Can it wait til after the Nats game?" Baby knows she is not! allowed! to touch! my toolbox! so this one always works.

Checking is the most dangerous of my jobs. Our 'neighborhood in transition' creates a fair amount of strange noises in the night. Usually it's just hookers in the alley, but the other night Baby woke up to the unmistakable sound of a police dog, apparently eating a bad guy. It's my job to go out there and make sure everything is ok. This is a sucker job if there ever was one, as my real role is to occupy my own murderer long enough for Baby to get away. She's sneaky like that.

Mashing is my most essential job. We live in a pretty nice building, but we're in the basement and we're in the city, so we get the occasional bug. I wouldn't say we have an insect problem by any means, but we get spiders and silverfish and a stray roach from time to time. I have to rescue the Princess by sending them to bug hell. It's usually not so bad. I am, after all, a big tough man.

But a few weeks ago Baby came home from jogging and woke me up in a panic. She explained that as she was coming back into our apartment, a roach that was out in the hallway crawled through the doorway. Our front door is near the back door of our building, and I imagine it must have come in through there. Half asleep, I got out of bed and got a trusty wad of toilet paper to save the day. I walked out into the living room and realized immediately I was in over my head. This wasn't your average roach. It was one of those big, fuck all city roaches you see on the sidewalk. If you've never seen one, they are, I'm crapping you negative, two inches long. The kind of bugs that crunch when you step on them with your foot. There was no fucking way I was going to kill that thing with toilet paper. I was certain I'd feel it's heart beating as I smashed it. And, I have to admit, I wasn't entirely sure roaches of that size don't have some kind of self defense mechanism. I wasn't trying to find out. So I did what any man would have done- I got the vacuum cleaner and I killed that son of a bitch good. Unfortunately it was too early in the morning to have a beer, even for a big man like myself. So I just went back to sleep, knowing I had saved my girl's life. And, to her credit, Baby confirmed that I am indeed her knight in shining armor.

It's not always that easy though.

Yesterday morning we were sitting in our kitchen, having breakfast. Baby has her toast on a paper towel, and she looks down and goes apeshit. A bug, and no bigger than a ladybug, is crawling across what she had been using as her plate. I spring to the rescue. I do this thing I do where I start having a conversation with myself. I'm wondering aloud what kind of bug it is, where it came from, what it's after. It looks a bit like a tick, but that's kind of weird. Do they have ticks in the city? How did it get in here? This isn't an inner monologue, mind you, I'm actually having this conversation with myself. Then it dawns on me that I'm supposed to be doing my job. I spring to action, and I mash him with my index finger. He gives a satisfying little pop, and blood squirts everywhere. Ah ha! It was a tick! I triumphantly hold it up for Baby to see. "Look, Princess, I have saved you! And my powers of deduction are razor sharp. It was indeed a tick, and I have slayed him. Have no fear, all is well. Rejoice!"

I expect her to weep with appreciation for my bravery, to call her girlfriends and sing my praises. I consider, once again, discussing the possibility of her starting a blog dedicated to how awesome I am. I am SO about to get laid.

She looks at me, looks at the dead bug, looks back at me, sighs, rolls her eyes, and walks away.

I think it's so sweet that sometimes she's so overcome with my awesomeness that she can't find the words to express herself. You know, when she finished that eye roll thing they were pointing toward the bedroom. Maybe I should follow her in there...