The whole day.
Our house is old and the kitchen hasn't been renovated since the 1960's (or earlier) which makes it really hard to keep clean. My own depression makes it hard for me to find motivation to do any deep cleaning. This was a huge project that was long overdue.
I got on my hands and knees and scrubbed the baseboards and corners with a scrub brush. I pulled out the fridge and stove and cleaned under and behind them. I cleaned out under the sink. Random drips and splatters were scrubbed up with an SOS pad. The butcher block island got relocated for better access to the fridge, windows washed, pantry cleaned out and reorganized...
We don't have a dishwasher, so in between washing the floor and scrubbing other things, I washed a few sinks full of dishes - although they're not done. The dishes are never completely done. (Grumble...)
During the cleaning project, D was in and out of the kitchen, making himself lunch while I worked (just for himself, not anyone else), and refilling his water bottle. He didn't offer to help, and I didn't ask.
Just a side comment here. In the "good old days," whenever he'd see me being domestic - cleaning and cooking and otherwise doing nurturing homemaker-y things - he'd come up behind me and give me a kiss or hug. I loved knowing that he appreciated me taking care of him and our home. This eventually gave way to him squeezing my ass as he walked past, which I still interpreted as appreciation. Now he barely looks at me and when he acknowledges my existence in these situations it feels like he is sending me the message of "It's about time you get off your fat ass and do something productive around here." Productive, hah. Never mind that my world came to a screeching halt after the accident for 3 straight years while I nursed him back to health. And worked a full time job. And maintained the household by myself. And paid all the bills.
While cleaning the pantry, I found a packet of Tandoori seasoning that I bought a year ago and decided to make Tandoori chicken for dinner. At 6pm I stopped cleaning and started working on dinner. Things were going well, the house smelled good, and when the rice was nearly done, D meandered into the kitchen.
He stood to the side and watched me as I cooked.
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing. Just watching," he answered.
The sauce was fine, but needed something. More salt? Acid? Sweet? I grabbed a spoon, swirled it through the sauce, and held it out for him to taste.
"What do you think? Does it need anything?"
He looked down his nose at the spoon as he backed away. "I don't want to ruin my dinner."
I threw the spoon at the stove (it landed in the burner - oh yay, more cleaning for me), "What the fuck are you talking about?!"
He was silent. He poked the beast with a sharp stick on purpose.
"What the hell do you think I'm cooking? How is one taste going to ruin your dinner? Are you planning on doing your own thing and don't want THIS dinner to ruin your own personal dinner plans?"
He had pissed off the wife and raised her blood pressure. Mission accomplished.
He started to walk out, so I used my training* and stopped him in his tracks.
Like flipping a switch, I calmed down and sweetly said, "Oh honey, are you getting Alzheimer's?"
He froze, smiled, then laughed. "Alzheimer's? Where do you get that from?"
"Well I've noticed that you have been saying things lately that just make no sense. Think about what you just said about not wanting to taste dinner because you don't want to ruin your dinner. I think there's something wrong. I'll call the doctor first thing tomorrow morning and we'll get that checked out right away."
His face fell.
I'm learning.
"No no no, I'm ok," he assured me.
"Then what did you mean about not wanting to ruin your dinner?" I asked.
"Nothing." He grabbed a clean spoon and dipped it in the sauce, then tasted. "It's fine."
(I wished he had grabbed the searing hot spoon instead.)
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*My training is where I'm learning how to do to him what he does to me. After years of gaslighting and covertly manipulating my emotions and ability to make decisions, I'm starting to turn it around and do the same thing back to him.No, it doesn't feel good, but it neutralizes the feeling of him sticking a knife through my heart. It also helps to wipe away any feeling of "I wish he was nice to me," or "Maybe we can still work things out." I'm done having my heart broken and smashed to pieces. Turning his shit around on him is like emotional duct tape for me.
Sadly, this kind of thing hardens my heart so I won't be tempted to wimp out when it comes to moving away and divorcing him.
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