Chapter 11: Saturday Madness

It was freakin' Saturday, the day everyone's supposed to chill and take it easy. But nope, not me. My to-do list was like a never-ending abyss, screaming at me to get it all done. So, I geared up with determination and decided to tackle those household chores, one by one.

I was on a mission, man. I attacked each responsibility with laser focus, leaving no corner untouched. The morning sun beamed through the windows, making everything sparkle like a shiny diamond. I wiped away the gross dust that settled overnight, leaving behind a trail of squeaky-clean goodness. Countertops were gleaming like they were brand spanking new, and the dishes were all shiny and happy after their bubble bath.

I hustled through the house like a champ, putting away random stuff that had somehow wandered off to the wrong places. Strewn clothes went back in their damn bins, books found their cozy spots on the shelves, and all those knick-knacks went back to where the heck they belonged. It was like a symphony of organization, with everything perfectly in tune.

Then came the moment of truth—the tiled floors were begging for a good moppin'. Armed with a bucket of soapy water and my trusty mop, I got down and dirty, scrubbing away all the grossness. And you know what? It was oddly soothing. The repetitive motion let my mind wander while I kicked butt at the cleaning game.

Finally, I reached the bathroom, ready to bask in the glory of my hard work. The place was so clean, it felt like a sanctuary amidst the chaos of life. But, of course, my moment of satisfaction was rudely interrupted by a sight that made my blood boil.

I'm talking about the eternal battle of the toilet paper roll, my friend. It may seem like a dumb thing, but let me tell ya, it's a big deal. That darn roll was hanging all wrong, totally against everything I believed in. Instead of the nice, neat, over-the-top way I liked it, it was clinging to the holder in that underhand position. Ugh!

So, I took a deep breath, swallowed my annoyance, and made a mental note to fix it later. It was my quiet rebellion against that infuriating husband of mine. I moved on, grabbed the laundry basket, and stomped my way downstairs, leaving the bathroom drama behind.

As I made my way down, my thoughts naturally drifted to Baby's early morning jog. Now, that was unusual for a Saturday, the day meant for chilling and recovering from the grind. My mind was all over the place, trying to figure out why the hell he was out there, sweating his butt off when he should be lounging around.

Maybe he pushed himself too hard during the week, leaving him with this crazy need for exercise even on his day off. Or perhaps the early morning calm and fresh air were too damn irresistible. My thoughts were a rollercoaster of concern, curiosity, and maybe a teensy bit of envy.

The laundry room was calling my name, so I threw myself into the mind-numbing task of sorting, folding, and hanging clothes. But deep down, my thoughts were still sneaking around, secretly pondering Baby's choices like a detective on a covert mission.

After painstakingly folding every piece of laundry and arranging them all nice and neat in the basket, I cradled that sucker in my hands like it was precious cargo, dead set on getting it to the bedroom without a single wrinkle. I stormed through the living room, laser-focused on the path ahead, until I caught sight of something that made my blood boil.

Right there, smack in the middle of the spotless floor I busted my ass mopping, were muddy shoe prints, mocking me and my quest for cleanliness. The weight of the laundry didn't mean squat compared to the boiling anger that was eating me alive. Seriously, what the hell? How could all my hard work be so carelessly trampled over?

I lifted my gaze from the ruined floor, and there he was, my oblivious husband. Just back from his morning jog, sweat dripping off him like he'd been caught in a freaking monsoon. He plopped himself down on the couch like nothing was wrong, his eyes glued to the TV like it held the secrets of the universe.

Baby, the tall and athletic badass who stole my heart, was rocking a pair of beat-up jogging boots, now stained with the dirt he thoughtlessly dragged into our sanctuary. He had his usual workout gear on, tight black shorts and a sleeveless shirt that showed off those muscles he worked so hard to keep. A towel hung loosely around his neck, soaking wet and reeking of his hardcore workout.

And in his hand? A massive freaking bottle of juice, the holy grail of sweet temptation. It was his annoying habit, one that grated on my last nerve. For all his health-consciousness, the dude couldn't resist chugging straight from the bottle like a caveman. Ugh! If I didn't love him so damn much, I'd be totally grossed out by his lack of manners and his insatiable thirst for sugary drinks.

My husband's head shot up as my intense stare locked onto him, catching him red-handed in the middle of this awful crime. He looked like a deer caught in headlights, his eyes bulging, frozen with his lips still wrapped around the bottle like he'd been caught stealing cookies from the jar. I mean, it would've been pretty hilarious if I wasn't so damn furious.

My eyes roamed over the floor, taking in the muddy shoe prints that wrecked my pristine territory. Baby's gaze automatically followed mine, and I could see the realization dawn on his face. His eyes bulged, and a gasp escaped his lips, filled with a mix of dread and regret. "Oh no."

In a fit of rage, I chucked the laundry basket, loaded with all those carefully packed dresses, straight at him. Quick as a cat, he dodged the flying basket, narrowly avoiding it as it smashed into the wall, sending dresses flying everywhere. It was like a crazy explosion of colors and fabrics, turning the room into a wild mess.

Baby Corrigan just stood there, wide-eyed and stunned, taking in the whole chaotic scene. His gaze jumped from the scattered dresses to my face, his eyes filled with a weird mix of amusement and who-knows-what. It was like he was trying to figure out how serious this mess was and what trouble he was in. But then, after what felt like an eternity, something changed.

Out of nowhere, a booming laughter erupted from deep within him, shaking the whole damn house. It was the kind of laughter that could make even the iciest hearts melt. I swear, I tried my hardest to keep a serious face, but his genuine amusement chipped away at my anger until I couldn't help but join in. Laughter exploded from me, bursting out uncontrollably, as all the tension just melted away.

So there we stood, in the middle of the chaos we created, dresses scattered all over the damn place, laughing like a couple of lunatics. In that moment, all the frustration and tension that had been simmering between us transformed into this shared, uncontrollable joy. It was a reminder that, hey, life's full of screw-ups and mistakes, but love and laughter can bridge any gap. We embraced the madness together, knowing that no matter what, we could face anything with a good sense of humor and a resilient spirit.

Amidst all the laughs, my eye caught this juice bottle with a shiny drop of drool chillin' on its lip. That innocent drink looked harmless, but I couldn't help but feel a tad grossed out thinking about someone else causing it. Man, if it wasn't him, I'd be totally disgusted.

But hey, love's a weird thing, right? So instead of puking my guts out, I let it slide. It was just another blotch on the canvas of our relationship, a reminder that even the people we adore the most have their quirks and flaws.