I will happily sit at home and take care of the house.
I'm around my kids every day. I'm regular. We're a regular family. My wife cooks, she washes clothes, I read books, I pump my own gas, I get my own hair cut.
I really have to force myself to tidy up around the house.
You cannot have one bathroom. And it don't matter how much you love your wife and everything, 'cause you wind up with no room at all. You just get a little corner, and you've got a toothbrush and your paste and a shaving brush and a razor.
I'm not comfortable leaving the apartment if the bed isn't made or a chair isn't tucked into the table.
Unlike most divorced parents, whose interactions are confined to the topic of the kids, people still sharing a house have to talk about clogged sinks and moth infestations.
When I go home my mother still makes me take out the garbage.
You're not going to find a man whose socks don't get dirty or who doesn't snore.
Perhaps all artists were, in a sense, housewives: tenders of the earth household.
