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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