Since the B.F. and I have been living together for a little over six months now, we've indirectly taken on roles within the apartment. I'm a much better chef than he is. And, quite frankly, he's a much better at cleaning than I am. It's not that I can't clean, it's just that I can't clean up to his standards, which might even put Martha Stewart to shame.
So when we decide to go grocery shopping and then I cook, he normally cleans up after the mess I make. I make quite the mess when I'm cooking. I'm pretty much a bull in a china shop. I get everything out as I need it or it all at once. I'm sifting through cabinets and drawers looking for the right cooking utensil. But, something always develops from my madness that's pretty damn tasty. Needless to say, he sometimes has a big mess to clean up. Like I said, because I don't clean up to his standards, the only thing I'm allowed to touch are the pans -- I'm allowed to dry them.
Then last night he cooked and cleaned, and I offered to clean up because that's what I should do, right? Wrong!
B.F. -- Allison get away from the sink. You don't know what you are doing
Me -- You cooked, so I'll clean up the taco mess.
B.F.-- No, you won't, you don't even clean up the stove after you cook on it.
Here's my stove cleaning isssue. If I'm boiling water for some frozen vegetables or pasta, do I really need to intricately clean every nook of the stove? I don't think so. Well in mop boy's world, I really really need to. Although, in the grand scheme of things, I really shouldn't be complaining too much. I mean, I have a B.F. who likes to clean. In fact, he may just love it. He even mops.
In the cleaning wars, he wins. Hands down.