Housework: July 2008 Archives

I need to call an exterminator. I have discovered a nest of man socks underneath the living room chair:

Guess who's favorite place to sit this is??

I think feet are one of the most disgusting things in existence. I cannot stand them. I don't like touching things that have been on them or touching them, I do not like touching other people's feet, and I don't like them touching mine. I have never gotten a pedicure for this reason and were I forced to get one I would probably throw up. Baby feet are excluded from my neurosis, only until around age three, and Ewan is almost at the age where I will find his ham hocks repulsive. It's just a matter of time.

Seriously, what makes one think Oh HEY! I'm going to take off my socks and STUFF THEM UNDER THE CHAIR instead of taking them upstairs to the hamper? Not once, but repeatedly?

Yes, there's dust under my chair. Just doing my part to keep it real.

Two days' worth right there. Gawd, grody! I can't touch them. In order to grab them and put them in the hamper I have to get the Dyson, affix the hose attachment, and suck them up at the end of the hose before dropping them in the hamper. Superfluous action, I know, but necessary to avoid any flesh-dissolving bacteria associate with cloth footwear.

This positively aggravates me beyond belief. What's even scarier is that Ewan now thinks that stuffing one's spent clothing under furniture is totally acceptable. Do you realize how unnerving it is when guests arrive and you spy a nest of evil beneath the club chair? There is no graceful way to to hide it; I once tried to kick them further under the chair except I kicked too hard and they shot across the hardwood floor much like a giant rat. My guests jumped. After that I'm sure they were so excited to eat the food I cooked for them.

Chris always says that he'll pick them up later. I've decided that later is the time that I'll write about it and post it on the internet.


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Dana asks: "Thanksgiving Traditions: Yours or Your Mother's?"