Big 10 pound expectations | Times Georgian | – Times-Georgian | Team Cansler

We’ve been married for over 40 years now and there’s a strange phenomenon I’ve observed in both men and women when it comes to preparing for events. I don’t remember this being a problem when my mom and dad were preparing for things like this (but then again, I don’t remember them having throngs of people to random and big soirees. When I’m supposed to clean up for company , we might as well invite a hundred people…) The problem with marriage is that people tend to have expectations. When the couple has polar opposites in their personalities (and most are), these assumptions can vary widely. As in, when I look at a room I see the beauty and color (or lack thereof); Ken sees the innards on the floor and the remote out of place. We had many struggles when it came time to clean up our house of society. My thoughts revolve around tidying up the house, cleaning the bathrooms and preparing the food. But mostly vacuuming. The roof might as well come down if we didn’t vacuum before the company got there. 99% of my problem, my problem is that I’m waiting until a deadline is approaching with very little time left to complete my tasks. I work best under pressure, I tell myself. The truth is, I’ve seen what happens to pressure cookers when they explode. It’s not nice. However, Ken’s priorities get bizarre. I’m sure he would say the same about me…

A prime example of the subject at hand: A few years ago we prepared to invite about fifty people to a Church-sponsored meeting. We had four very young children who we also homeschooled. I took mad care of the house to get it (semi)sanitary. Ken defied my to-do list and said he had his own, so I frantically hummed and tried to stay in my lane (does anyone really stay in their lane?). Time was almost up, I was sweating like an old fishwife, ready to hop in the shower when I noticed a stain on the wall. Upon closer inspection, I saw that there were several such markings in the main hall. I hunted down my husband to find him with a rusty old paint can and brush “touching up” the walls. To my dismay I found that he had done this throughout our large house, in literally every room, without noticing the rust mixing right in with the touch up paint. After falling to the floor in a fit of desperation, I straightened up and got into the shower. Somehow no one was murdered that night, we had the event and lived to see another day. The next few weeks were busy repainting much of the interior of the house. We’ve figured out our trajectories: I don’t touch his yard. He doesn’t touch my brushes.

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