We met about 11 years ago. She’s a petite little row-house on a lovely quiet street in a very nice neighborhood. We did a lot of work to the house about 6 years ago and I would imagine that was the pinnacle of my love affair with her. I tirelessly sanded floors, painted what seemed like miles of crown molding, polished fixtures and filled her niches with curiosities.
These days, our love affair has cooled. Projects, minor catastrophes, and general disorder and filth mar our relationship. The once shiny, new dishwasher now has an attitude problem and stops mid-cycle forcing me to lean against the door to get it to finish. This morning a toilet inexplicably over-flowed. Mold grows in my cozy little basement necessitating the installation of a sump pump. Our windows are sooooo filthy, it’s shameful. Paint chips. Plaster cracks. That bitch ass dog has incessantly wiped her face all over my beautiful lemon colored velvet upholstered chairs. Dust runs rampant.
In those early passionate days, I stayed up half the night, hot and bothered by her charms, refurbishing stained glass windows and crystal chandeliers. Now I keep the lights dim and avert my eyes from the worn oak stair treads as I retreat to my bed, heart hurting.
I know I should be working on our relationship. I know I should be giving this mistress the attention she is clearly calling out for. I want to salvage this relationship. I want to feel my heart pitter patter as I enter my jewel box of a powder room. I want to paint and polish and roll around half the night lavishing attention upon her. . .
I’m just so fucking tired.
I think it’s time we spice up this relationship. . .
With a threesome. . .
I’m considering a handyman.