There’s a laundry list of problems that no amount of bleach will fix.
This Isn’t About The Sock
“Honey, where is my sock?”
I sighed. “How would I know, Sugar?”
“Well, aren’t you the one doing the laundry?”
It was impressive how he always managed to find the exact words to piss me off. “So, just because I am a woman, I’m supposed to do laundry?”
“But you’re always doing laundry, aren’t you?”
And you’re always missing my points. “I am, as long as you would have decided to put your socks in the laundry for a change.”
He appeared in the room. His one bare foot almost made me chuckle. “Please, Honey. I’m already late.”
Right. He was always running late while I had lots of time to spare. Hundred years of women’s suffrage. Uncountable demonstrations in the past to give women the right to a job. And here we are, still expected to do the same chores on top of that job. Someone please explain to me what exactly we have gained.
He gave me the puppy eyes, and I sighed again. “Okay, where did you take them off last night?”
“Here, right before I stepped into bed.”
“So you put those dirty socks back on after you had a shower?”
He blushed instead of answering.
“You didn’t shower at all??”
“I was really tired, and…”
Great. It was official now, I married a pig.
“Have you looked under the bed?”
He went down to check. I suppressed the urge to kick his butt.
“Have you looked inside the bed?”
His face cleared and he tossed the sheets away, undoing the work I had just done.
“Tadaa!” he called out, while presenting me his dirty little trophy.
“Great catch, Sherlock.”
He grinned and hopped around putting his sock on.
“’kay-gotta-run-love-you-catch-you-later-hon!” He dashed out of the room after placing a sloppy kiss on my carefully painted lips. Seconds later, I heard the front door slam and the car leaving the driveway with shrieking tires.
I wondered how far he’d get before finding out about the missing pants.