Husband number one, let’s call him H1, has a different relationship with time.  It just moves differently for him.  Time and things and space, they float, they gather, they build, they pile.  The sense of scale is obtuse and overlapping. Projects, timelines, deadlines, there is no line for these things to perch upon, it’s a wide-ranging orbit that hopefully connects back to itself, one day in the future.  

In the kitchen, all H1 had to do was make a piece of toast and it looked like the refrigerator exploded. Cabinet doors blown open, jars and lids and wrappers floating, him sitting in the happy midst of it all with buttered toast And he made excellent toast.  He had a natural skill that flavored and infused the simplest things,  even soup from a can was better in his hands.  He baked sticky buns and cookies worthy of any bakery, home made marshmallows, meringue, chocolate mousse, there was an abundance of skill surrounded by logistical chaos.   

But a meal, served for guests? Forget it.  Dinner did manage to come to the table most nights, unpredictable and delicious, but every bowl and skillet and pan was put in service of the meal. The refrigerator had five jars of opened salsa, one for each level and shelf, and all of them on the edge of mold.  There was no list for the grocery store, he’d return with ten bags packed to the brim,  all of it soon stuffed away to come avalanching out in great releases that threatened to bury the cat. 

The dishes multiplied and reproduced in the dark, bearing spawn that mounted.  One could be forgiven for thinking a dishwasher might be the solution, the magical box where you put them in dirty, push a button, and open the door to find them clean.  But no, even a magical machine couldn’t put a dent in the situation, couldn’t manage the living, morphing piles of utensils, pans, dishes, and cups — the machine may be magic but it couldn’t keep up in this circular multiplying culinary underworld.  

And where was my hand in the matter, shouldn’t I be doing the cleaning if he’s doing the cooking? I was there, chipping away, but one can’t have a goal in mind in this situation, it becomes demoralizing.  It’s like standing in flood and demanding a drought, after a while, you come to your senses and preserve your energy. I cleaned when I needed to, I tended to the edges while the creations brewed in the center, the counters would be clear but the cabinets were stuffed with 87 cereal boxes and four jars of opened peanut butter. And the recycling rose to the ceiling. 

Husband number two, H2, is a living ramrod in the service of time. Each morning at 5:30, he shoots out of bed like there are two springs in his ass, one for each butt cheek.  He lands across the room straight into his clothes, laid out the night before. His socks snap tight, the belt cinches in, he jogs downstairs to make his coffee in his own little espresso pot.  He spends an hour drawing the line of his time — lists, schedules, meal plans, shopping lists.  The next twelve months are mapped out, it’s a binary, black and white, zero or one kind of world — if it’s not on the calendar, its not happening. .

The grocery store list has a tidy ten items, there is nothing in the bags that is not on the list.  Exactly one jar of opened salsa is in the refrigerator, in its appointed spot, and it is in danger of getting thrown out on Sunday.  H2 makes wonderful meals, they come out on time and with precision,  the recipe is followed to a letter, every bowl and pan is cleaned before we sit to eat.

When H2 cleans the kitchen, the house shakes on its foundations. The banging and the rumbling and the slamming is remarkable.  It’s a dead serious matter.  There is no conversation, there is no interaction, this is a man fighting against the flow of disorder. And he will win. That counter will be spanking clean, that dish rack will be orderly, no shortcuts will be taken.  

It’s so intense and single-minded, I choose to leave the room.  Trying to help is like trying to stick your hand in a fan.  There’s nowhere to go to escape the clatter, even the sound of the faucet turning is amplified in his hands. Eventually, he will reach the point of satisfaction, put down the sponge, march into the living room, grab a fresh piece of wood and launch it in the woodstove with ferocity, as if the sanctity of the entire home and family hangs in the balance, dependent upon this dutiful action.  

And then, finally, he will fall onto the couch, loudly exhale, come back into his senses, and call “Honey! Where are you?”  Um, I’m right here, sitting next to the woodstove, where you almost took my nose off with that last piece of wood. And then he pats the couch and I join him, the kitchen gleams in the distance, the recycling piles are only two days old, I know just what we’re doing for the next twelve months, and there’s exactly one fresh jar of salsa in the fridge.