**Female Logic**
One evening, Oliver returned from work exhausted after a long day of meetings and problem-solving. The only silver lining was that it was Friday—tomorrow, he could sleep in.
*”At least I can catch up on rest. What a gruelling week,”* he muttered, collapsing into bed. His wife, Emily, gave him a sly look.
Noticing her expression, Oliver groaned, *”Em, let me sleep in tomorrow. I know how you are…”*
Oliver and Emily had been married for eleven years, and their son, Charlie, was nine. Both had successful careers—Emily ran a small but respected firm, while Oliver held a prestigious position with a handsome salary.
Saturday mornings in their household always began the same way: with cleaning. Rain or shine, holiday or not, the routine never wavered. If Saturday was a workday, Sunday took its place. Emily was a stickler for order—a trait Oliver both appreciated and resented. She wouldn’t rest until every inch of the house was spotless, and she made sure no one else did either.
Whenever the topic arose, Oliver would argue, *”I’m not a slob. My socks are always paired, I don’t leave dishes in the sink, and my laundry goes in the hamper. I’d say I’m tidy.”* But Emily disagreed.
That Saturday, Emily woke up as usual but lingered in bed a little longer—no rush on a day off. She mentally mapped out the day’s tasks.
*”Fine, let him sleep an extra hour. But no more—if I don’t nudge him, he’ll stay in bed till noon.”*
Oliver, half-asleep, heard her voice: *”Come on, up you get. Breakfast first, then cleaning. The house is a mess, and there’s dust everywhere.”*
*”Em, please, just a bit longer… It was a tough week,”* he grumbled, knowing further sleep was hopeless.
But Saturday mornings always played out this way.
*”Oliver, you’ll sleep better in a clean room,”* Emily countered firmly before marching to Charlie’s room. *”Charlie, this applies to you too. Breakfast, then tidy up. Put your action figures away—or I’ll do it myself.”*
That was Charlie’s worst nightmare. Moments later, a cry came from his room: *”Mum! You ruined my army base! Six soldiers were in ambush!”*
*”Why is your blanket on the floor?”* Emily asked.
*”That’s not a blanket—it’s a hangar for my fighter jets!”*
*”Just pick up your toys. They’re everywhere.”*
And so, every Saturday, Oliver and Charlie endured Emily’s relentless cleaning drive. They grumbled but complied.
*”Mum, maybe we can play first and clean later?”* Charlie suggested hopefully.
*”No ‘later.’ Breakfast, cleaning, then we’ll see.”*
Emily headed to the kitchen, only to snap moments later: *”Whiskers, stop yowling! I fed you ten minutes ago!”*
The family’s fluffy grey cat with white paws and sky-blue eyes rubbed against her legs, purring for treats.
Their two-storey house was cosy but easily accumulated mess. After work, exhaustion kept them from tidying, and Charlie certainly wouldn’t do it unprompted. By Saturday, dust, sand from the cat’s paws, and general clutter demanded attention.
Oliver dragged himself up—no point resisting. Hunger and Emily’s determination always won. In the kitchen, Charlie and Emily were already eating.
*”Wow, love, you made pancakes?”* Oliver kissed the top of her head.
*”Unlike some, I don’t laze about.”*
*”Dad, come eat while they’re hot!”* Charlie grinned.
It wasn’t even that early—breakfast at nine.
*”Right, boys—after cleaning, what’s next?”* Emily asked with a teasing smile.
Oliver sighed. *”Grocery shopping.”*
*”Exactly. Well done.”*
This was their ritual: once the house sparkled, they stocked up for the week. Oliver didn’t mind the chores—they were necessary—but he hated losing precious hours to dusting.
That day, even Charlie cooperated, gathering his scattered clothes and toys (though arranged his own way for easy access). When everything was finally in order, Emily exhaled in satisfaction.
*”Ah, nothing beats a clean house,”* she beamed.
*”Agreed,”* Oliver said, storing the vacuum under the stairs.
*”Now, rest up before the supermarket. I’ve made the list. Ready, Olly?”* He nodded—always ready.
Sitting beside her, a brilliant idea struck him. *”What if we hired a cleaner? Not just any cleaner—a ‘domestic service professional.’ I’ll look it up later.”*
After shopping (Charlie thrilled by his stash of sweets), Oliver researched companies, then steeled himself for Emily’s reaction.
*”Em,”* he began carefully, *”hear me out before you object. What if we hired someone to clean for us? Just Saturdays?”*
Her eyes darkened. *”What’s next—a personal chef? A—”*
*”Wait! Think about it. We spend two hours weekly—over a hundred hours a year—cleaning. That’s time we could spend together, with Charlie, even with Whiskers.”*
Emily paused. As a director, she understood efficiency. Her own office used cleaning services—why not home?
*”Fine. We’ll try it. If it doesn’t work, we cancel.”*
Charlie cheered. Whiskers flicked his tail. Oliver kissed Emily’s cheek.
The following week was hectic—late nights, no energy for tidying. By Saturday, chaos reigned: clothes piled on chairs, dust thick on surfaces.
Emily shook Oliver awake. *”Olly, get up!”*
*”Em, the cleaner’s coming. We’re not doing it today.”*
She stared at him, then blurted, *”A stranger’s coming, and the house is a mess!”*
They locked eyes—then burst out laughing. Charlie rushed in, bewildered.
*”Emily, you never change,”* Oliver managed between chuckles.
**Lesson learned:** Sometimes, even the best solutions can’t outpace old habits—but laughter makes the mess worthwhile.
