my boyfriend is the smartest man alive.

And let me tell you why. 

Because Wednesday night is cleaning night in our house. 

Yeah. 

Basically cleaning night is a time when we as a couple have the immense pleasure of being at each other's throats for several hours after the actual cleaning is over, usually ending in me crying about how allergic I am to our lovely pet. 

she weighs 160 pounds. those jowls sling slobber six feet high in places. 

We used to not have a weekly cleaning night, and that was worse because the house would become gradually more disgusting and I'd make increasingly frequent passive-aggressive attempts at hinting to Matt that he needed to scrub the goddamn bathtub or something. Matt does not speak 'passive aggressive.' Much to my dismay we have to actively communicate. Pity. 

But now we have weekly cleaning night and while I hate it, this plan usually confines our fighting time to one night a week. 

But not this week. Because this week my own boyfriend brought out the heavy artillery. 

Yes, he came home armed with a bottle of my favorite champagne. CHILLED. 

I know. 

And somehow, scrubbing hardened, crusty dog slobber off of the walls whilst sipping some bubbly doesn't seem quite so dehumanizing. 

In fact, it almost felt a bit glamourous. 

Almost. 

You're a smart man, Matthew. I'll see you and a fresh bottle (please?) next Wednesday. Cheers.

i suppose i'll allow them to stay. but only one is allowed in the bed at night.