Smells like laundry detergent

My dog eats more socks than any dog I know. I don't know how he gets to them, other than going the kitchen to get the step stool, then carrying it upstairs on his back, where he gently sets it down in front of the dresser and pulls out the drawer quietly with his opposable thumbs and grabbing my favorite pair. Or Dave's.

There's no other explanation, because Dave always puts all the laundry away as soon as it comes out of the dryer. Always. He doesn't ever let it sit on the loveseat, all forlorn and in messy piles. He doesn't wait until it's technically "laundry day" again and the baskets are full and we need towels and I'm asking him "have you seen my green pants? How about my yellow shirt? My brown shirt? Pink pants? Anything resembling anything I would wear to work?" at 7 a.m.

Never. That never happens.

But today, I got home and the loveseat was a loveseat. A real, actual "sit on me" loveseat. I mean, it was always a loveseat, wink wink.

No, enough lying.

There is a silver lining if you believe that silly saying, in this: he waits so long to bring clothes upstairs, and the piles are so daunting on the loveseat that I don't go digging for missing clothes, that when he carries them upstairs a week or two later, it's like we've been shopping! "Wow! Look! Pink pants! And green pants! A yellow shirt! It's just what I wanted! Thanks, Dave!"

It's pretty exciting, this married life.



And I don't want to hear that I should stop complaining and do my own dang laundry, because it's this arrangement we have worked out, see, and since it's 2007 and not 1957, that makes this OK. I wear pants and make money. I do dishes. I dust and clean the bathroom. He also makes money, and he mows or shovels and does laundry and carries heavy things. Oh, he wears pants, too. Of course.