Before Matt and I lived together, he lived in an apartment that had no laundry in the building. He would either go to a nearby (very expensive) laundry mat or to his (not very convenient) parents house when he found himself in desperate need of clean underwear.
(For the record, this was typically when he was down to his very last pair of boxers, and it was always the same pair that he would save for last because they were too big and “bunchy”. I called them his Internet boxers because they had web addresses all over them.)
(Would he kill me for writing about his underwear on the Internet? Yes. Yes he would. If I suddenly go missing you will know why.)
One time, when the Internet boxers were making an imminent appearance, I suggested that he just do his laundry at my apartment. We had machines in the basement, and they were cheap. I am crafty and an opportunist, so I also suggested that he bring all of his towels over and wash those at the same time. You see, Matt did not think that he needed to wash his towels. Like, EVER. Because, “you are clean when you use them.”
The thing was, even though the washer and dryer in my old apartment were 1) convenient and 2) cheap, the dryer was not what you would call a stellar piece of machinery. Especially when stuffed with and expected to dry 15 towels. So Matt took his towels out of the dryer while still damp. And put them in a plastic bag. And put them in his car. For FOUR DAYS.
I’ll give you a minute to think about what that smelled like.
It is because of what is now affectionately called “the towel incident” that Matt is no longer allowed to do laundry.
In return, he is responsible for handling anything and everything to do with trash, including the removal and tying of the bag, and the replacement of a new one, and bringing the cans to the curb every week, etc.
But then that little shit had to go and break two of his toes. And while you’d think that handling a little trash duty would be something a good girlfriend could manage while her man was injured, well you’d be dead wrong.
Tomorrow is trash day, and since there is nothing I am less interested in than putting trash at the curb at 6am, I decided to take care of it tonight.
First, there was the giant spiderweb that I walked through while going to the side of the house to get the can. Then there was the realization that the spider had come to rest on my arm. Ok. It’s just a spider, right?
But then the can tipped over on the way up the driveway, spilling it’s wares. And then I came inside to discover that the kitchen trash was really full and that the bags that I bought? They are really sub-par, because the &%$^&*% bag broke while I was halfway up the driveway.
(Double Dog Yuck Times Infinity.)
Finally, on the way back to the house for a good hand scrubbing, I was forced to make polite conversation with the woman who lives next door, and lord knows it’s a really good thing that no one can hear my inner monologue because I think we all know how I feel about my neighbors at this point. (HATE. That is it.)
While yes, there are certainly worse things than having to take the trash out, I think I’ll be ready for a little appreciation when a certain someone’s toes are healed. Like maybe he could feed me bon-bons while he cooks dinner and vacuums. And oh yeah, he should scrub the toilet, too. (But, uh, only AFTER he’s done feeding me bon-bons.)
And if he doesn’t? I know a certain pair of boxers that will be making an appearance.