Taking out the trash

I've been doing a bit of date night my last two weeks here. That means I sit on the little couch while George and Chris are on the big couch. It also means they collaboratively cook a tasty (and sometimes experimental) dinner while I'm groggy and possibly still sleeping. They get home from a long day's work, slap on some aprons, and head right into the kitchen. George has been very good about preparing her ingredients beforehand too. Defrost that chicken, buy some milk! Where they find the energy for all this I'll never know.

George has accumulated quite a few cooking devices since she's started date night. The one we're most excited about is the Slap Chop of course, and it's been used to nice effect recently. It really does work amazingly, just like the late night TV ads say. George also has a salad spinner (unused), a new chopping board and knife (unused), and a huge collection of spatulas, slotted pasta scoops, and big plastic spoons. Taking a quick head count, the number of stirring implements she owns rivals the number of shampoos and conditioners in her shower. Which is pretty strange since George doesn't cook much. Her kitchen had been fully stocked for awhile and just waiting for a cooking partner -- or a head chef -- I guess.

So since I'm neither, what exactly do I contribute to date night? Well, I have my whale ice cream spade (unused) and I'm good at verbal encouragement. When someone defined the term "third wheel," they totally had me in mind. Occasionally I do the dishes but not enough. I sometimes volunteer and then forget. Or George beats me to the punch. On Tuesday she came home from work and went straight to the kitchen.

"See I told you he didn't," she said to Chris, pointing at the sink. She was hoping I had done the dishes from the previous night. Nope. I did think about it though. Really hard.

I think part of George will be happy to be rid of me (the other part will be merely ecstatic). I'm not exactly a good domestic partner. I once thought I was, back in college, but I realized that was mainly because I was never home. My roommates never saw me so thus I was, by default, a good roommate.

I assumed that meant I was good at living with other people. Oh how wrong I was. After a few stints living with friends (and one girlfriend), I've found that I tend to repeat the same pattern over and over. I take up space on the couch, I run up the electricity bill with all night lights and computer usage, and I don't do any chores on a regular basis. Oh, and my clothes tend to be strewn all over the place. You know in Sex and the City when Charlotte has to (gently) tell Harry that he leaves teabags all over the house? I'm Harry, except my teabags can be anything from loose dollar bills to cigarettes to books and random papers to my set of smoking clothes. Of course I wear a different set of clothes outside to smoke, shouldn't everybody?

See, I'm neat and tidy but only in a certain chaotic dirty way. Like I always say, "I'm sanitary but not necessarily clean." My mom hates it. She hates the way my room is always filled with piles of stuff. She's a neat freak and can't stand messes. Especially mine. Luckily George hasn't inherited that trait, otherwise she would've kicked me out by now.

Luckily I compensate for all this by being good company. I require very little care and feeding as a person in the room. While my presence is constantly felt, it hardly ever requires attention. I entertain myself easily, I participate in television banter, and I'm either down to do something or quick to avoid doing anything. That's not an easy trait to have. I'm like a little barnacle that might be unpleasant to the eye but ultimately something just doesn't feel right when I'm not around. That's what I'd like to think anyway. Farewell Fillmore Street, farewell!

Update: And yes, I just did the dishes even though it's seven in the morning. I just guilted myself into it. You're welcome.