With apologies to womankind, everywhere. I hang my head in shame and confess. I have failed. The weekend is here and I have nary a chore, nary a task, nary a “honey-do” for my honey to do.
Yes, the unthinkable has happened.
But these are unimaginable times and after six weeks of sheltering-in-place, I have run out of chores for Handsome Hubby to do. He’s fixed the leaky faucet outside. He’s replaced the burned-out lightbulb at the top of the stairs. And he — finally — cleaned the garage.
HH used to be a regular Mr. Fix-it, but as he’s gotten older (and less patient), his mantra became “Hire somebody to do that.”
But when the San Francisco Bay shelter-in-place order came down, he couldn’t get away with that anymore. So, I got to re-activate the “honey-do” list and man, oh, man, did I have fun with it! I listed ten million and twelve pesky little things I hate doing around the house. And HH — to his credit — went through the list, one-by-one, and knocked off the dirty little manly deeds.
Who’s Laughing Now
But now the list is complete. So, who’s having the last laugh?
With no more chores to do and hours of “quality” weekend quarantine time ahead, I know HH is thinking three words: Die Hard (and) Terminator.
Yes, payback is a bitch. Now I’m the one going to suffer, sitting there watching those damned movies for the ten zillionth time with him. Talk about a chore!
Please, Dr. Fauci, help! Please let me shelter-in-place somewhere else. As Barbra Streisand sang in Funny Girl, “Would a convent take a Jewish girl?”
Oh, well. So, goes Day 47.
Wait! Anybody need any chores done? It’s not strictly sheltering-in-place, but if you have essential tasks that need doing, I’m willing to lend HH out. No charge — mask and gloves included. The tradition of the weekend “honey-do” list must be upheld! Besides, there’s a DieHard marathon playing Sunday. Save me! Please!