I woke up first just before 8am. I can’t be awake that early, I thought. I don’t have to get up. I rolled over and fell back to sleep again. I am sure I dreamt again, all negative about failing or falling, no need to remember them. I woke up some time later and it felt like it was hours later and I was pleased. Oh I feel so much more rested, I thought.
I go up. Sam continued to sleep. I always try to be the slippery man, the stretchy one, is he out of Xmen? I always try to slither out of bed so smoothly and so quietly, so as to move the bed the least, therefore disturbing Sam as little as possible. He looks so handsome with his head on the pillow, slightly to one side, so angelic, really. My legs slip out from under the doona first horizontally, like an envelope coming out of a letter box slot, then once they are completely clear of the bedding, they bend down at 90 degrees and my feet touch the ground. Then I do one of those B-boy stand straight up from the ankles moves, except my whole body slides out from under the bed clothes in the same move... and stand up. All so I don’t disturb my beautiful boyfriend and so as he can sleep.
If he remains undisturbed, he stays still and quiet. If I wake him, he starts to bleat and grunt, like a baby animal stretching and calling for its mother in the same breath.
This morning, he was silent.
I looked at my watch it said 8.34. Oh, bugger. Really? Just half an hour? What happened to those days when I could sleep until the afternoon, not a problem?
I made coffee and cereal and sat at the coffee table in the lounge room. It was kind of a cool morning, still windy, as the air whined somewhere outside in the trees. But then Buddy was jumping up at the door, unusually as he is a good sleeper too, so I let him in and he came and sat next to me and pushed up against me and kept me warm.
Sam got up sometime later. He arrived with his laptop and sat next to me. I made him coffee, he pointed at the kitchen when I suggested it. He ate ciabatta bread with butter and vegemite, which is quite possibly the nicest thing you can eat for breakfast.
This is day 2 of quitting smoking and I can feel the withdrawal, yes, I can. That unsettled feeling. The “ahhh.” The knots in the back of my neck, in my shoulders... I gather that is withdrawal anxiety? The butterflies in my stomach, I’m sure that is just “want.” That mad rush of desire when, like at the dog park last night, someone lights a cigarette and suddenly I feel like I am missing out, like I am being denied.
I’ll just ask him for one… he’ll give me one… we are all on the same team, essentially... he wouldn’t deny a brother in need? Just relax, don’t ask any one for anything… back away from the smoker.
Oh, boo hoo, it will be good when this stops.
Sam wanted to clean. His nerd news must have been short today. Oh groan, we had to clean. Sunday afternoon cleaning… it is a sickness, shake of the head. He was very serious about it, my least favourite type of cleaning, with determination. We need a schedule, apparently, and a list. (kill me now)
“Since we are getting new carpet, we need a new shoe off policy…”
“No, I am not agreeing to that,” I replied. I have never been able to buy into that anal shoes off at the front door thing. I’ve always been suspicious of the people who insist on that? Are they germ phobic or mentally deranged, or both? It just isn’t normal. What do you think carpet is for? It is for walking on... you morons.
“Oh yes,” said Sam.
“NO!” I insisted.
I got so over the cleaning. It didn’t take long before I didn’t want to do any more. I turned into a child and moaned. I did vacuum the atrium, the kitchen, the lounge room and the front hallway, the whole down stairs. I did replace the vacuum bag. I did unblock the vacuum hose, which I may, or may not have blocked up in the first place. It was a drag. It was a chore. I hated it. I couldn’t get into it. I got pouty when I didn’t want to do it anymore and Sam insisted. I abandoned my post, in the end, I had no other choice. I lost (good boyfriend) points, I know.
“I don’t care, you can’t make me!”
Sam was gung-ho, he kept at it like a madman.
Oh, clean, clean, clean. I don’t get it. I don’t get a charge out of it. It just seems like a waste of time, setting yourself up for disappointment. What you clean, just gets dirty again, it is a never ending cycle that you just shouldn’t buy into.
“It is pointless.”
Sam was very impressed with Jill’s cleaning products. She gave me a whole tub of cleaning products that were excess to her needs. Who buys so many cleaning products they have to give them away as the only means of getting rid of them? I tell you it is a sickness and we have become enablers by taking them from her. She can’t stop herself from spending, it gives her meaning in her life, it relieves her boredom. I’m sure it is sexual, like those rogue firemen who go out and light fires…
Sam got stuck into cleaning all the windows, after I had stopped. Oh yes. All the windows, with newspaper and windex, which we have in the traditional blue shade and which we now have in the more modern clear formula also.
I was coerced into window cleaning as, apparently, I had rested by that stage. I cleaned one door and one window above the said door. Then I was done. I have to say they did shine though, with relatively little effort.
I just don’t see cleaning as a fun thing, even with the pleasure of the end results in my head.
Sam spent an awful lot of time glaring at me, through the windows he was cleaning. Every time I looked up. I could hear his brain ticking over. “Does he sweep up? Never sweep up? Does he clean up? Never clean up…” But it isn’t true, I’m good at cleaning, I am house trained, I’m just not that convinced by it. It is just not a good idea to ask me to do such things on day 2 of quitting smoking. Day 2 of quitting smoking is draining, it is hard to get the energy for, well, anything really.
Cleaning? If I think it looks dirty, I’ll clean it up. Just don’t ask me to schedule it.
Finally, I got up on the windows, he was cleaning from the outside, and cleaned the inside. I made cutesy faces at him as I cleaned. It didn’t really endear me to any great extent, but it got more of the windows cleaned. It made him laugh instead of scowl, so that has to be a good thing.
The light faded. The windows gleamed. The day outside fractured into late afternoon. A hint of night started to descend.
We took Buddy for a walk to the French Bakery and bought apple crumble, cheesecake and Portuguese egg tarts. We came home and I made tea and we had afternoon tea cakes on small plates. I think it was Sam’s way of appeasing me after all the nazi cleaning directives.
Over dinner, Sam kept commenting on what lovely windows we have. “Look at those, they look so fresh, so vibrant.” Then he’d slide his bare feet across the kitchen floor tiles and he’d remark how smooth they felt.
Apparently, the home brand floor cleaner I buy is incomparable to Jill’s luxury name brand.
I cooked risotto for dinner. Bacon, leek and mushroom. Yum! Even if I do say so myself. I must make the calamari and lemon one again, that could be my very favourite.
“Have you ever seen such clean windows?” asked Sam. “It is as though there is no glass in those frames at all.”
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