Not only do I want to say "I do"... I want the Old Guy to say "I do" too.
Now I don't want to get married for your traditional reasons of loving somebody so much that living apart from them is pure H-E-Double Toothpicks.
I just like the idea of the Old Guy being, or rather feeling morally obligated to lift his hand to a few chores around here.
And if we were married and living together, he would want to do stuff to make our little love-nest lovely.
He would do stuff like mow the lawn on a little more regular - rather than annual - basis, and I could bring him cool and refreshing drinks, while he wiped the honest sweat off his brow.
And he wouldn't charge me.
He could do manly, fun screwdriver-y things like replace the bloody screw that he removed (a year ago) from the shower head holder (for no good reason, mind you. He just did it because he could)... which means I now have to point the shower head at a weird-arse angle, to keep water from going in the empty screw hole and ruining my walls and I have to wash my hair at a neck-breaking 45 degree angle while water runs up my nose...
If we were married, maybe he would want to change a light bulb without me naggin' and raggin' on him for fourteen weeks and then the only reason he would finally change it was because maybe I tripped in the dark and ended up with compound fractures of 75% of my bones and the paramedics couldn't see what they were doing - so they'll ask him to put a new bulb in.
Which he would do.
In a very manly, "puffing out of the chest" I'm the man of this house kind of way.
If we were married, he would want to carry that 100 pound bag of potting soil that's been sitting in the patio for 2 years, half way down the yard for me, so all I would need to do is split it open and start tossing dirt...
I could be making us a lovely little garden, where we could grow all our own tasty, home grown fruits and veggies, with the 832 seed packets I've collected... and sticking it up the yahootie of the darn Coles/ Safeway rotten vegetables supplying duopoly at the same time.
He would do a little more than just sweep and rake up the millions of dead leaves in the patio, leaving them laying in a 40 foot pile, looking like Mt Kilimanjaro just waiting to be scaled... and then prance around and preen, and sigh mightily, expecting a medal for all his hard work.
If we were married, he would put them in the garden where they belong and dig them in for me.
See, what's got me on a
( just in case you're not aware, 22 months is 2 months short of 24 months. Which is 2 years. Go check your calender, and you'll see that I'm right)
he talked me in to buying 12 huge red-gum sleepers (railway ties) that would be ideal for the raised garden bed I've been dreaming of.
The cute little (okay, not so little) raised bed that would have a little fence at the back, which would block out the light from the back neighbors spot light.
Which is left on 24 hours a day and that shines directly in my bedroom window at night.
Oh, and I could grow stuff there, as well.
We hauled those sleepers all the way down the back and placed them in the approximate position of the future garden bed.
Where they still lie.
Covered in weeds and grass.
The only reason I know that they're still there, is that I called a wonderful man named Glen the other day, who does stuff like this for a living. And he does it beautifully.
Glen simply came out, scraped 22 months of growth off, and said:
"Wow, this will be really easy. It will only take me an hour and a couple of coach bolts - and it will cost you next to nothing.
But I would have thought that the Old Guy would have already done it for you. Has the poor old bugger been sick?"
No Glen, it's just that he has to wash his towels.
Yes folks. It's true. That's his excuse.
"I'll be over shortly. I just need to get this load of towels out of the washer."
"I can't do anything right now. I need to wash my towels."
"How many towels do you wash at a time? I can only fit 6 in my washer, so it takes me all day. And then I need to dry them by tossing them over things in the living room and firing up the wood stove."
See, if we were married and living together under one roof, I could wash his towels for him... freeing him up to do the myriad of little chores around here that he's been promising to do for the last five years.
It would be a win-win situation.
On second thoughts, I don't want to get married.
I want a divorce.
I wonder if Glen is single?