Maryam and I have quarterly household meetings that share a tried-and-true agenda: we start by blaming each other for the pigsty-like quality of our place, continue with some superficial stress cleaning that temporarily assuages the heft of our shame, and conclude by swearing on what’s dearest to us—my dog, her Cthulhu funko pop—that we’ll procure coasters and never again let entropy conquer us.
