My wife is quarantining wrong.

When I’m told to stay home for months at a time I look at it like a prison sentence with my adorable children. I think we’re supposed to sit there and act like we’re in prison. Stare at the walls, watch cable, and eat seven meals a day.

But my wife is quarantining wrong. She’s like one of those fixer upper shows but a marathon of them. This is like being in prison with a workaholic warden. Everything, except the kids of course, smells clean. Bleach has burned through my nasal passages and is beginning to affect my brain. I can’t remember my middle child’s name. And I need to know her name because she’s usually the one in trouble.

And we’ve moved on. We are now cleaning out closets. Those same closets I’ve been stuffing stuff into for years when she asked me to clean the other rooms. We’re painting them. Do you know how crazy you have to be to paint a closet? I gave her my patented “Are you crazy look?” It was the same one I gave her when she told me I had to dust under the books on the shelves. “Honey,” I said, “those books are real 18th century literature. Nobody has picked that up to read it ever. There’s no chance dust got under it.”

Anyway, not only am I painting the closet, I’m getting critiqued for not painting it well. Trust me honey, all the stuff I’m about to put back in there we’ll never see the walls again.

But you see, that’s it. She doesn’t only want to clean. Now she wants to organize.

My wife also cleaned the bathroom and is now looking askance and horrified at anyone and everyone who dares to use it. #illgooutside
I’m feeling guilty for going to the bathroom.

I’m thinking I will contact my governor. They seem to have a lot more power to tell people what to do than I thought they did.