A Snyder In The Sun

A Snyder In The Sun

Dear Husband, Father of My Children, And Killer Of Large Spiders

I love you.  Let's just get that out of the way.  You are caring, sweet, hilarious, handsome, and you tell me how much you love my booty, even though it definitely jiggles wayyyyy more than it should sometimes.  You come to the rescue when the cats have a lizard trapped in the corner and I'm too paralyzed with fear to move.  You even clean out the vacuum cleaner because I insist that it's a man's job.  We get each other and  I just love you, like, love love, you know?

But why?  Just tell me why this happens

Biscuit isn't impressed either.  Obviously.

Biscuit isn't impressed either.  Obviously.

Remember when we talked about the laundry situation?  I think it might have even been last week.  Anyway, you asked why I didn't just keep the laundry basket full of dirty clothes in our room and then bring said clothes into the garage to wash while still leaving the basket in our room so we can fill it up again with yep, you guessed it, more dirty clothes.  So that's what I did. 

You can imagine my surprise then when I saw your dirty stuff laying RIGHT NEXT TO THE DIRTY CLOTHES HAMPER THAT JUST SO HAPPENED TO BE FULL OF DIRTY CLOTHES!  My only thoughts on this are that you are purposely effing with me.  It can't possibly be that you don't know that those clothes inside the hamper are dirty.  Even worse, you couldn't possibly be that lazy, right?  Maybe you just aren't paying attention?  Whatever it is, please please please lock it up man!.  I don't want to have another snippy conversation about the proper ways to do laundry.  At this point the easiest thing to do is throw all the clothes into a metal barrel and set them on fire.  But I still love you, I swear.  

Love,

Wifey Poo

 

UPDATE: It appears a pair of jeans made its way into the mix last night while I was working on this post.

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