Saturday, February 7, 2015

I Guess It's a Wash

The wife and I keep separate laundry hampers because my work clothes smell like jet fumes and industrial processes and crucial split-second decisions while hers smell like a working mom (Unicorn Rainbow Magic, snickerdoodles, the awesomeness that leaks out when she runs a business and carpool and trains with our dog).

I do my laundry every Saturday because I DO IT RIGHT, not like the rest of the people in this house, and this morning I found some of the wife's Lightly Soiled with Awesome laundry in my hamper.

I am presented with two choices: Do my own laundry and leave hers in there like a dick so she can care for her laundry in the way she would prefer, or take care of her laundry THE RIGHT WAY along with mine.

Anyone who's married and wants to preserve the peace and sanctity of their weekend knows there is only one choice.

WIFE: 1 HUSBAND: Weekend Preserved.

Illegal Dream Sex

I am officially old and busted and spend too much time working.  Even my dreams are polluted by my work life.

I just woke from a dream where I was in charge of inseminating the entire 2015 roster of Sports Illustrated swimsuit models, but the entire dream focused on the legal wrangling about whether that included the new "plus-sized" model that will be featured (but only in an ad).

We never got past the contract negotiations.  Then I woke up.

True story.