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I tell you what, though, if he’s not lying dead in a ditch somewhere he is going to get an earful from me.

With a sigh I slide my phone into my purse, sling said purse over my shoulder, and head out of our bedroom. I’ll just go clean something in the kitchen while I wait for him to get home. I’m sure it won’t be long. It’s Friday night. Date night. Max won’t work late on date night.

True, we haven’t been the best at keeping up that particular rhythm, but we’ve been married for 17 years. Surely we have enough of a connection between us for him to sense that tonight is the night we resurrect date night. This desire can’t be one-sided.

Any minute now he’s going to walk through the front door and take me dancing.

The only problem with my clean-while-I-wait plan is that there’s nothing to clean in the kitchen. Everything is already clean. I don’t get told I have a type A personality for nothing.

It’s the same in every other room in the house. Living room: clean. Bathrooms: all clean. Basement: clean. Even Elle and Liam’s bedrooms are clean because Elle is naturally clean, and I cleaned Liam’s yesterday morning. I know a kid who is 12 should be responsible for cleaning his own room, but I tried that once…I lasted two days before I could no longer stand the sight of Liam’s socks on the floor. I swear I could sense those socks all the way down the hall in my bedroom.

I had PTSD flashbacks to when we first got married and Max did that with his socks. Luckily, I taught him about this novel invention called a laundry hamper.

I head back to the kitchen and run a finger over the kitchen counter, searching for crumbs or stickiness or something, anything to clean.

Nothing.

My eyes land on a kitchen cupboard that’s slightly ajar. I make my way over and try to push it close but it bounces right back, blocked by some item in its path. Further investigation reveals a box of crackers someone put away sideways.

Goodness. How hard is it to put crackers all the way in the cupboard? My eyes rove critically over the cupboard. Maybe it doesn’t make sense for snack food to go here. Maybe snack food should be closer to the fridge. Sort of a one stop shop. Then I could move my serving dishes over here. Just a simple swap. Not like I have to reorganize the whole kitchen….

An hour later all of our dishes are spread out on the kitchen island. I’ve got my spray bottle of natural cleaner and a roll of paper towel, and I’m in full-blown deep clean and reorganize mode. I’ve also got early 2000’s country music playing loudly on our kitchen speaker. Normally I’d be singing cheerfully along, but with every passing song I’m getting more and more annoyed with Max. Where the heck is he? And why hasn’t he called?

I hop on a kitchen stool to clean the top of the refrigerator, pulling my rubber gloves on more tightly as I go.

The song switches to “Before He Cheats” by Carrie Underwood. Finally, an angry song. I can get on board with that. I’m not worried about Max cheating on me—he’s too worried about his political image to do something like that—but even so, the vibe of the song is exactly what I’m going for. I’ve been wronged by the man I love and he’s going to pay.

Yikes. I’m a bit dramatic tonight, aren’t I?

I’m calling it the Carrie Underwood effect. There’s just something so enthralling about the idea of swinging a Louisville slugger.

Not, like, at Max or even his car. Just maybe one tiny therapeutic swing at a junk yard or something.

Since I frequent junk yards so much and all.

Not.

I’m on the second refrain when the music cuts off unexpectedly and my loud—and somewhat pitchy due to my worked up state—voice fills the silence as I declare that my man is going to think before he dares cheat again.

I whip around to see Max standing there, staring at me with a rather offput expression on his face. Next to him is Greg. His campaign manager. Or as I like to call him, me negative 2.0. As in a worse version of me.

It may not be a wholly deserved label, but it makes me feel better about having stepped down from the job after Max’s second term almost four years ago.

Unlike Max, Greg has a bemused sort of expression on his face, like he’s not sure whether to laugh or to look away and pretend he didn’t see anything unusual.

Obviously it’s the latter, Greg, I want to inform him.I am the wife of one of your candidates after all, that means when I do something weird you look away then mentally prepare for how you could spin my weirdness into a positive for the press should they ever catch wind of it.

Instead of looking away, however, Greg chooses the former option, letting out a slightly uncomfortable laugh.

The perfect example of why he’s the downgraded version of me.

“Oh, hi, Max. Greg.” I nod at the man, then paste on a sunny smile as I climb off the kitchen stool. “How nice of you to join us for date night.” Somehow neither of them seem to catch my sarcasm.

“Date night?” Max looks confused. “Jill, what are you talking about? And what’s with the dress and the gloves?”

Oh right. I’m wearing bright pink rubber gloves. Forgot about that. With as much dignity as I can muster I pull the gloves off. Or at least I try to. As this type of glove is known to do, the material has suctioned itself to some of my fingers, meaningremoving them is neither graceful nor any other remotely positive adjective.

By the time I finally get them off, I no longer have the men’s attention. Instead they appear to have moved on to discussing whatever it is on Greg’s phone screen.