When one of them says, “Good job taking out the recycling,” my entire week is made. I literally wag my metaphorical tail. I once fixed a leaky faucet, and they gave me a standing ovation. I nearly cried. A man living alone would get zero applause for basic plumbing. But in this house? Every small act of usefulness is met with the kind of praise usually reserved for Olympic gold medals.
I used to think living with women would be complicated. Emotional. Full of passive-aggressive dish warfare. And okay, sometimes it is. But mostly, it’s warm. It’s loud in the best way. There’s always music playing, always someone to talk to, always a random baked good appearing on the counter for no reason. i became the dog in an all female household
Not literally. But they will decide it’s time for fresh air, grab my arm, and say, “We’re going to the farmer’s market. You’re carrying the bags.” I go. I do not resist. I trot alongside them, slightly behind, holding reusable totes like a Labrador carrying a duck. When one of them says, “Good job taking
And here’s the strange part—I love it. I nearly cried