THERE'S nothing like the sight of hubby lying on the couch on the weekend to drive me absolutely crazy.
And I'm not talking rip-my-clothes-off-and-leave-my-stilettos-on kind of crazy, more a rip-his-head-off-then-stab-him-with-my-stilettos kind of crazy.
How that man can snooze in front of the telly when the lawn needs mowing, the washing machine is leaking, there are more dishes on the coffee table than in the kitchen and the dog is developing deep-vein thrombosis because it's been so long since any one has taken him for a walk is beyond me.
Now I fully understand hubby needs a bit of down time at the end of his busy week. Goodness knows, between watching Top Gear, The Footy Show, the golf, the cricket, the soccer, the car racing and the nudie bits on SBS the poor thing barely gets in 30 hours of television from Monday to Friday.
So naturally he is looking to make up his quota on the weekend. But is it really too much to ask for a bit of help around the house?
I'm not reaching for the stars here. I have two kids and an under-exercised dog with a shedding condition, so a spotless house isn't even on my radar.
But I'll happily settle for a few less dishes in the sink, maybe some fresh sheets on the beds, the clean washing folded and put away instead of piled up like the leaning tower of laundry on the computer desk and the unidentified sticky stuff wiped off the remote.
Last weekend it was the usual story. Hubby was on the couch glued to the telly and I was trying to tidy up. He was totally oblivious that while I was vacuuming around him I was thinking up 47 ways to hurt him with the vacuum cleaner and three different places I could hide his body.
As I collected all the debris off the coffee table and with my arms full of crap, the love of my life looked into my eyes and said, "Honey could you keep the noise down and not walk in front of the telly so much?" And that ladies and gentlemen of the jury is when things got ugly.
He hadn't recognised any of the standard international signals for housework help.
The huffing and puffing as I dusted and vacuumed had been ignored, the dramatic pause with hand placed on stretched back had gone completely unnoticed, the banging of the dishes had been tuned out and, most annoyingly, the "Gee, I'm getting a bit tired from all this housework" verbal signal wasn't met with the universally accepted (and safest) response of "Let me help you" but the more dangerous reply of, "Why don't you take a break".
"Excuse me? Why don't I take a break?"
I'll tell you why Sherlock. Cue a solitary tear. "Contrary to popular belief just because I was born with boobs doesn't mean I was designed to do dishes or created to clean. So unless you never want to see my nudie bits again and are happy to sleep with one eye open for the rest of this marriage I suggest you get off the couch and go clean something."
And after my little spray the love of life, bless him, looked up at me and said, "Sure, sure, just as soon as this show is finished. Can you pass me the remote?"
In my defence, ladies and gentleman of the jury, can I just say: who knew remote controls weren't designed to be airborne?
Family Taming is a weekly humour column.
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