It starts off with the small stuff – ignore that dirty cup in the sink until your partner washes up – but it escalates to billowing laundry baskets, drawers of unopened mail and terribly, terribly dodgy stuff at the back of the fridge.
My husband Andreas and I are not house proud people. We’re house happy people. We love our house, in all its tatty-postered, dodgy-floored glory… but it’s not going to be featured in House & Leisure soon. Mostly because the urge to fix or clean is slow to strike either of us.
This is deeply unfortunate. In a household of two messy adults, two tornado-messy teenagers and two full time jobs – the chore ball drops first and frequently.
I say ‘drops’, but I really mean is ‘lies on the floor accusingly, gathering dust’. Because, for over 20 years now, Andreas and I have been playing a game of Chore Chicken so nuanced as to make Kasparov’s chess seem like Tiddlywinks.
All relationship-hardened readers will recognise Chore Chicken.
It starts off with the small stuff – ignore that dirty cup in the sink until your partner washes up – but it escalates to billowing laundry baskets, drawers of unopened mail and terribly, terribly dodgy stuff at the back of the fridge.
In 2 decades of hardcore competition, Andreas and I have gone way beyond such paltry beginner games. Our automated garage door motor broke eight years ago; we just park outside. Our doorbell conked in six years ago; we rely on the dogs barking. The stove light’s been dead for a year; we simply stopped baking. All these adjustments are made without a word, because the person who cracks first, is the person who has to deal with it.
There is a certain delight at being astonishingly good at Housework Chicken. I usually win, as I am a born sloth, while Andreas is forever fighting his German genes. But sometimes… sometimes, this technique backfires on both of us.
Last week, our children called us into the lounge.
‘Mom? Dad?’ began our eldest, Josef. ‘We just want to say that we are proud of your incredible staying power. You are both tremendously good at Chore Chicken. But if someone doesn’t call the dishwasher repair guy tomorrow, we’re putting all your shit in black bags and leaving it by that broken garage door. So flip for it. Now!’
I have a feeling that our Chore Chicken prowess may not have carried through to the next generation. I’m also very excited about having a dishwasher again.
Wanna share your best Chore Chicken stories? I can’t hear too many.
(Perfect parents? Steer away from commenting on Facebook or Twitter, please.)
* This post was originally published in May, 2014.
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