Sweetheart… or should I say my disappointing little house pet? Yes, you. The man who promised to take care of things. The one who swore he’d make our home nice for me. Look around. Really look. Crumbs under the coffee table, sticky counters, that disgusting ring in the toilet I shouldn’t have to see every time I pee. This isn’t a home anymore. It’s a pigsty. And I’m done pretending I don’t notice.

I’m not asking. I’m telling you.

You’re going to clean this entire house today. Top to bottom. And you’re going to do it the way I want it done—thorough, spotless, obedient. Because when this place shines, I feel good. And when I feel good… maybe I’ll feel generous. Maybe I’ll smile at you. Maybe I’ll let you kneel at my feet later and thank me for giving you purpose. But only if every surface gleams and every corner smells like lemon and submission.

Don’t whine. Don’t “but babe.” Don’t tell me you’re tired. You’re tired because you’ve been lazy. Fix it.

Here’s your marching orders, husband. Follow them exactly or sleep on the couch with the dog hair.

Kitchen – Start Here, You Slob

Empty the sink. Every crusty plate, every greasy pan. Wash by hand. Scrub until your fingers prune. I want the stainless steel to reflect my face when I check later. Wipe every countertop, the stove, the fridge handles. Get the front of the cabinets—yes, those greasy fingerprints are yours. On your knees for the floor. Mop it twice. No half-assed swipes. I want it so clean I could lick it (not that I ever would—that’s your job if I feel like humiliating you).

Living Room – Make It Look Like I Live Here, Not a Bachelor

Dust everything. Top shelves first, then down. Don’t just wave a rag around—actually remove the dust, don’t relocate it. Vacuum under the couch. Move the furniture if you have to. I don’t care if your back hurts. Fluff every cushion. Fold the throw blankets the way I like them. Arrange the remotes neatly. This room should look magazine-ready when you’re done.

Bathroom – You’re Going to Hate This Part

Toilet first. Inside, outside, under the rim—scrub until it’s white again. Use the brush like you mean it. Shower/tub: spray, let it sit, then attack the soap scum like it personally offended me (because it did). Mirror streak-free. Chrome shining. Floor mopped on hands and knees. When I walk in later, I want to feel clean. Pampered. Worshipped by your effort.

Bedroom – Our Bedroom

Change the sheets. Wash the old ones. Make the bed the way I taught you—hospital corners, pillows fluffed, duvet smooth. Pick up every single piece of clothing. Laundry basket, not floor. Dust the nightstands. Organize your mess. I shouldn’t have to look at your clutter when I want to relax.

When you’re finished—and only when every room passes my inspection—you may come find me. Kneel. Hands behind your back. Tell me, quietly, how much better the house feels now that you’ve served me properly.

If I’m pleased… I might let you kiss my feet. I might run my fingers through your hair and call you my good boy. I might even let you sleep in our bed tonight instead of the floor.

But only if it’s perfect.

So get moving, husband. The clock’s ticking. And I’m already disappointed.

Clean. Now.

Your Wife (who deserves better than this mess)