About an hour after Mr. Rathroy walked out the door for his weekend-long bachelor party, our ceiling started leaking. As it turns out, what we thought was an old water stain leaking through the previous owner’s crap patch job was actually still a very active problem.
In tears over the impending financial burden, I called my parents as I watched the paint on my dining room ceiling crumple and give way to a steady stream of water. I knew what this meant. Sell the dirt bikes! Cancel the honeymoon! We can’t afford silly things like that anymore. Instead, we’ll pour every penny we make into this stupid 1946 lathe and plaster house that we were so excited to buy. Stupid house.
After my hardworking father crawled into our attic and strategically placed buckets along our air conditioning vent system that was drip drip dripping into our rafters, I frantically went through the motions of an adult homeowner in crisis:
- E-mail the real estate agent. We had only just bought the house in November. Maybe there’s something she could do?
- Sob to your dog about the inevitable collapse of your stupid house. She’d understand.
- Use every ounce of will power not to call your fiancé. It’s his bachelor party weekend and you’re a big girl.
And there I was – in the middle of a 110 degree heat wave forecasted to last at least 5 days – with a non functional air conditioner and an automated home warranty phone system. Yes, I would like to submit a service request. Any chance a real person could tell me how to do that?
So, instead of working on our ceremony or deep cleaning the house like I had planned for my weekend alone, I pretty much just sat around in my underwear, sweating and feeling sorry for myself. Piper did the same thing.
I didn’t even cook. I ate a tortilla for dinner both nights. And a beer. Who wants to do the dishes when it’s 108 degrees outside? I mustered up about an hour of general yard work one morning and then couldn’t even motivate myself to shower the sweat off until I knew I had to leave the house.
I blamed it on the heat, on the leaky ceiling, on the long night of watching “She’s the Man” starring Amanda Bynes, but I think the truth is that I’m the real bachelor in this relationship.
Seriously, the second Mr. Rathroy came home, I got busy with the meal planning and the cleaning. I even cooked myself a well rounded lunch (my first real meal in 48 hours). It was like I needed the motivation of someone else living in my mess to really take care of it. Turns out, when no one else is looking, I can be pretty sloppy.
Despite the feeling of a wasted weekend, it was nice to not feel obligated to a task list (or a standard of healthy living apparently). I was free to mope about our broken house, to read my book, and to watch bad TV without a hefty does of self-imposed guilt.
Maybe one day I’ll actually understand that Mr. Rathroy never judges me (even when I watch a marathon of Say Yes to the Dress) and that there’s really no reason to feel guilty for taking a mental time-out. But for now, I’ll get back to packing our daily smoothie ingredients into individual containers to make our mornings more efficient. There’s nothing like a fresh fruit and veggie smoothie to start you on a big day of self-love right?