I have not been down in my basement since shortly after becoming pregnant, because the combined odor of the mildew and the catbox caused me to projectile vomit as soon as I opened the basement door.
The laundry is down there.
My dear spouse has been "doing the laundry" since September 2002.
What that translates to is dumping buckets of clothes on the wet basement floor, walking on them, and grinding the dirt in, while actually washing only those articles which in his estimation were essential to our continued survival.
He keeps telling me he is not yet ready to turn the job back over to me, despite the fact that our son is now five months old.
That has caused me no end of dread wondering what the hell my basement looks like.
I just took a freakin' safari down there. It is another world. It should be the site for the next version of Survivor! It is utterly disgusting. I didn't have to puke, but I wanted to...
We won't even mention the cat barf and scattered litterbox contents. Oh, guess I just did...
There are clothes I have not seen in a year down there.
There are also piles of very good clothes that are now nothing more than stained rags. And, oh, yeah, coincidentally, the vast majority thereof are mine. Stuff I cannot afford to replace.
OK, so he's passive aggressive, and definitely NOT Martha...
But what currently has me pissed purple is he is now throwing the baby's clothes on the moldy yucky floor.
That is just plain gross.
I am now on load number three, and the pile is literally taller than I am and about twelve feet square.
What the hell was he thinking?
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