Nikki Yeager

Before Daniel and I made that huge life decision to combine our worlds, our precious storage space and our crappy Target furniture, we got plenty of criticism. He got constant digs from his friends, "why don't you just marry her then" (as if marriage is the end of all life as we know it) and I got constant questions from family, "are you sure it's not too soon?" 

Well it may have been sooner than logic deems responsible, but I haven't stabbed him in the face with our new set of knives yet. So that's probably a good thing, right? 

In fact, living with a boy is.... dare I say it? Nice. 

And here's why in one word: Negotiations. 

I like to think I'm a darn good negotiator. It turns out that if you know what you're doing you can opt out of litter box duty, 90% of grocery shopping and refilling the laundry card. How? Clever negotiations. 

For example, I don't mind doing the dishes. Daniel on the other hand, views dishes as little gifts from Satan. The leftover crumbs make his skin crawl, the idea of spending an extra five seconds by the sink after consuming enough sushi to feed all of Japan is completely foreign to him (for a small boy, he can eat a surprising amount of Japanese food). If I bring up the fact we've had the same plates sitting in the sink for a month he looks at me like I'm speaking Greek to him. No idea how to solve that problem. In fact, the problem itself is incomprehensible.
"Dishes? What are those?"

On the other hand, I despise cleaning the litter box in the same way I despise being run over by garbage trucks or getting bamboo shards shoved under my finger nails.

However, Daniel seems to be oblivious to the fact that our cat farts out Chlorine Gas - one whiff and I'm convinced I'll die before my next exhale. That cat makes my eyes water, my throat close up and my nose want to commit suicide. And let me just say, no matter what goes into that cat (a piece of Indian food I dropped on the floor, a surprisingly large lint ball , a piece of kitty litter from between his toes or, on occasion, actual cat food from his bowl), it comes out the same- Chunks of semi-watery death wrapped in a sulfur cloud. 

Anyways, I've managed to get out of cat duty for the rest of my life by offering to do the dishes. 

Little does Daniel know how horrendous that litter box becomes after just one use. He's still in the honeymoon stage with our little Macaroni Cheesy Doodles. He's convinced the cat poos flowers and sunshine.

But someday he'll figure it out... and it'll be too late. The handshake has already happened, the deal has been sealed. 

Which is precisely why I love living with a boy. I can talk myself out of all the ickiest chores there are.