That's why Dave does the laundry.

My butt hurts.  Too personal?  Perhaps.  True?  Definitely.  Butt (pun intended) allow me to explain.

There’s an unspoken agreement in our house.  When it comes time for laundry to be done a conversation between Dave and I ensues that goes something like this:

Me: Man, I really need to do laundry.  I have nothing to wear and B needs pants.

Dave: It’s ok, I’ll do laundry.

Me: Honey, you really don’t have to, I can do it. (Both of us knowing FULL well that Dave will automatically end up doing it ’cause I don’t wanna and he’s cool like that.)

Dave: It’s cool, I don’t mind.

Sweet.  Mission accomplished.  The laundry gets done and I get to check my email. heh.

But today, well, today was a different story.  Dave was out back playing with boy and the dog in the snow so I thought I’d take the bed sheets off the bed and be a good wife and actually do some darn laundry.  Well, when God (or whomever) made man (and woman) he decided that he’d like me to be short.  Curses.  So I grab the overflowing basket of laundry and make my way down the stairs, upon which the leg of my pants makes its way under my right foot rendering the stairs a veritable ice rink.  Awesome.

Ten points if you can figure out what happens next.

Yea.  I face planted.  Well, not so much a face plant as an ass plant all the way down each stair.  Yay.  So that’s why my butt hurts.  And that’s why Dave does the laundry.

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