Look, a bird! No, it's a plane! No, it's a flying Pain in the Ass! It's Pain in the Ass Man!
Let us discuss two issues that have befouled me of late. One is the weekly laundry. Two is the dishes.
I have the responsibility of the laundry. It's kind of the way things work around here. He does certain things. I do certain things. He takes out the garbage. I do the cooking. It works. I also do dishes. I don't do back rubs or windows. Sometimes I'm incredibly sarcastic, but well, that's a given.
A recent occurrence: I was in the kitchen minding my own business when I suddenly perceived that HIM was opening the dish washer and inserting a freshly rinsed dish inside it. I gasped loudly and startled HIM who thought that I was having a heart attack.
I did have responses but they're usually snarky. ("Dishes don't do themselves." "You could rinse that out before you throw it in the sink." "You could rinse that out after you eat it at lunch at work." "You could hire a cheap Peruvian maid to do the #$%^@!! dishes for me.")
So I gasped loudly, i.e., theatrically, and scared HIM. HIM thought something was wrong with me. (Seriously, I'm pretty sure that HIM hasn't opened the dish washer in at least six months, so I was entitled to gasp. And btw, sweetie, I dare you to amend that number when you're reading this blog.) (SIX MONTHS.) (All you Bubba fans can blame HIM because I'm not writing faster. You see, I have to stop writing and do the dishes. Haha. I love blogging.) (Okay, I had to add a note because when HIM read the above, he said, "Oh, that's not true, sometimes I open the dish washer to get a cup out." This statement doesn't really help his position, does it?)
What is truly remarkable is that HIM is rather OCD about certain things. That HIM is not OCD about dishes is a little weird. I would think he would have some strange little quirk about all the dishes being at a right quadrilateral angle to the square root of a hippocampus. (Whateveh.) Or maybe all the cups have to be upside down because something would settle in them right side up. Or only dishes can be located above the stove and only silverware in the drawers. They have to be color coordinated at angles to the the northern hemispherical latitude. But amazingly, shockingly, wonderingly HIM doesn't have any OCD issues about the dishes.
No, HIM saves the OCD-ediness for...da, dah, dahhhhhhhhh....the laundry.
Again, one of my details. I do the laundry. HIM changes the litter box. (The fact that we no longer have cats seems to be moot because I'm still doing the laundry.) Let me see if I can summarize the minutia of doing the laundry in less than twenty thousand words. I'll try but being succinct is NOT one of my super-powers. Fat Woman does not take short cuts in verbiage. (You know, this is a frequent complaint with people in my novels. Apparently I'm supposed to cut down on the use of the thesaurus. Well, the truth is that I'm not using one. Ya'll get a freaking dictionary. Go listen to Dennis Miller and then come back and complain about me. Sheesh.)
Okay, back to the laundry.
1. T-shirts must be right side out. No nasty tags on the outside. They must be folded accordingly. The shoulders are held by the seams and brought together in neat squares. The arms are folded inward across the front. The T-shirt is folded into thirds and results in a tidy little square that is placed in a tidy little pile inside his T-shirt drawer.
2. Pants are folded in a similar manner. Seams together. Folded in quarters this time. Different drawer for accountability.
3. Socks are returned to right side out. Then they are paired appropriately and placed in a drawer so they can plan a little sock rebellion for later on in the day. (Also only footie socks go on the left side of this drawer whilst underwear is stacked in the middle and black dress socks are congregated on the right side of the drawer. Can't have those little sock bastards intermingling. A gym sock might get together with a dress sock and we'll have the Apocalypse.)
4. The manly underwear is turned right side out AND folded neatly. (I don't see the point of folding underwear. I mean, is HIM afraid he's going to be in a car accident and the paramedics are going to see wrinkles in his tidy-whities?) Then the man underwear is placed in the middle of the socks. (See above. No co-mingling and the underwear is the referee.)
5. Polo shirts are to be hung on hangers. (Wire are acceptable but plastic is preferred.) The collar must be folded as if being worn and before the warmth fades from the dryer. (If one folds the collar after the warmth fades, the shirt is in danger of implosion or wrinkalage. Or something equally hideous.
6. Polo shirts must all be hung facing the same direction. The tops of the hangers must all face the same direction. (Hangers don't match? Shirts don't line up? Anarchy!!!!!)
7. Business casual pants must be neatly folded in half and hung over the hangers with the little paper tubing on it. If they are hung over a wire bottom, horrifying creases will stay in the pants when worn and people will stop and point and stare at HIM whilst at work. Also they may throw him out of the building for having a wire caused crease with instructions to go home and change into something from the Rocky Horror Picture Show. (I'm thinking Dr. Frank-N-Furter in the fishnet stockings and the like.)
8. And a partridge in a pear tree.
Okay, in conclusion, HIM is weird. HIM is weird enough that I have to tease him. Also when we were watching Animal Planet we saw an episode of Dogs 101. They featured the Target dog or a Spuds McKenzie dog. A bull terrier. This is a funky looking dog with a funky nose. Anyway, at the end of the segment they talk about the dogs' quirks and they said this breed is prone to OCD behavior. Haha. This is HIM's dog. The dog would fit right into our house. Doesn't it figure?