The line in the sand

Darn. I'm a nagging bitch! My hardworking man can't take it anymore!! He does everything, EVERYTHING for me, and I just want more, more, more.
I have put my foot down and demanded in my evil harpy manner that
1) the garage must be made to accommodate my car
2) there must be a clear path to the laundry facilities
3) clothing that does not get placed into the hamper will not be laundered.

My mate who apparently continues to function a few bars short of a signal, finds these demands absurd because he already does so much work! I guess if he means driving around town picking up shit out of alleys to put in our garage, because he's already filled up his WAREHOUSE with other items that one might find a a flea market, then yeah, he's got his nose to the grindstone. Really though, can one ever get too much busted up shit and empty cans to enhance one's living space? I'm going to end up medicated because he's crazy. Backwards again!! it's a pattern.

I'm happily hiding downstairs in the guest room, because I can see clear evidence of a floor. Sometime during the nights thus far both kids and the dog end up trickling down here, so that all of us are piled onto one twin bed while the Lord of the Manor takes his repose in the massive fancy-mattress kingsize bed. Nonetheless, I like it down here better.
He keeps trying to explain that he's so damn busy being Mr. Mom and pursuing important legal matters that he just can't help me.
That's OK, in fact I'd almost be upset now if he complied, because I like it down here. He can just keep drinking those big cups-o-crazy for now.