Crabby

I've been feeling a little . . . unappreciated lately.  It's a common refrain heard from moms and wives since Biblical times, I'm sure. Normally I just suck it up and go on with life, but every so often I feel the need to hit the brakes and pout about it a bit.  I've been threatening to "go out for cigarettes and never come back," but this threat has been rendered largely ineffective, mostly by the fact that I do not smoke.  

No one seems to notice that clean underwear automatically appears in their dresser drawer.  Or that clean sheets magically land on their beds twice a month. Or that nutritious meals appear on the table regularly.

Apparently, I am the only member of our household capable of:

• Emptying a backpack (and dealing with the contents thereof, such as school papers, wet snow gear, and stowaway Zhu Zhu Pets).
• Cleaning the litterbox.  Cleaning anything, for that matter.
• Buying groceries.
• Letting the dogs out. Letting the dogs in. Feeding said dogs.
• Keeping track of the school schedule, which includes late starts, early dismissals, and "closed just for the hell of it" dates.
• Driving short people to gymnastics class. 
• Keeping track of every birthday in our extended family and buying gifts for those occasions. 
• Packing lunches.

So yeah, there are days when the burden starts to feel a bit heavier than I'd like. Did I mention that I also work full time? My other half doesn't offer to do more; he just tells me that the stuff I do is unnecessary (I maintain that the toilets do, in fact, need to be scrubbed from time to time). Am I a bit of a neatnik?  I suppose so.  I don't like clutter all that much. I guess my fear is that if I don't stay on top of the workload, I'll find myself on an episode of "Hoarders" while the guys from 1-800-GOT-JUNK are pulling 20-year-old newspapers and cat skeletons out of my house.  It's a slippery slope, people!

I know it's really my own choice that I like to keep the house neat.  It would just be nice to hear an occasional, "Hey, thanks."  When I was growing up, it didn't matter if my mom handed my stad a pickle sandwich.  He would say, "Aw, thank you, honey. That was the best pickle sandwich I ever had."

I was feeling a little frustrated the other day when the note below was slid under the bathroom door while I was in the shower.  I have to confess that while it would be nice to be both loved and appreciated, one out of two ain't bad.