Dirty Work

JC walked into the living room wearing nothing but a t-shirt and carrying two crisp hundred dollar bills in his hand. His balls made eye contact with me on the couch.

“Oh god what do I have to do for that?” I winced.

“Nothing. You said you needed money.” JC set the cash on the table.

“I always say I need money. Thought maybe I had to work for it this time.” I said as I watched this Winnie-the-Pooh looking motherfucker turn and walk away.

“You already owe me four blow jobs, Candy! I would never offer to pay!”

I never make good on a BJ debt.

I had spent three days wallowing on the couch with either a mysterious illness, ovulation cramps, or a broken heart — I can’t remember, when I told him I thought we should hire a housekeeper.

JC, my roommate/ex husband, is my favorite person to fuck with.

He spends seven days a week doing dirty, manual labor. I spend seven days a week leaning into my feminine. Which looks a lot like baking cookies, writing, long leisurely walks, lunches with friends, dinking around, that sort of thing. Listen, I’m a mom and I also work too, kinda.

Anyways on my third day of fanning myself and eating grapes on the couch, I thought it would be funny to tell him we needed some extra help around the house.

Me- We should think about hiring a cleaning person.

JC- NO!

Me- Just like once a week.

JC- Have you lost your mind?!

Me- Just to deep clean, do the windows and stuff.

JC- Are you serious?!

Me- Yes. (I wasn’t).

JC- Get over yourself. That’s the dumbest shit ever. You can clean!

Me- I’m busy.

JC- Don’t you say that. My god. You’ll be out of here so fast. No!

Me- If you skip a couple six-packs of beer a month you could afford a cleaner.

JC- Absolutely not.

Me- Um. That’s rude.

JC- Fine. I’ll clean the windows.

And that’s how you get your husband to clean the outside windows, folks.