I’m not sure how it happens that men are spontaneously separated from their underpants, where they seem to drift away on the breeze, ending up on street corners, garage floors, and in my most recent example, tangled up in one of the mattress covers at our rented house. I never find women’s knickers anywhere but my own knicker drawer or on the shelf of the store from which I intend to purchase them, yet men’s gitch – everywhere. I have no idea of the state of the dirty-ness (or cleanliness for that matter) of said tighty whities (of which they always are) before they land in their final resting place, except that once I stumble across them, they are always filthy, nasty pieces of unfortunateness. 

As a non-fan of this form of under garment, my dream is that someone – a partner, friend, parent (okay, maybe not a parent), suddenly became so grossed out by the mere existence of such underwear, they could bear the travesty no longer, opened the window one night and set them free. Like balloons they float away to unknown destinations, where they choke whatever (or whoever) finds them. 

  

No David Beckham, I don’t think you look “hot” in the picture. I think you look stuffed, which makes me think you’re hiding something, which makes me feel sorry for Victoria. Okay, okay, I don’t feel sorry for Victoria Beckham, it’s just that she always looks so hungry and I kinda wish she’d have some dinner

Marc refused to let me take a picture of the underwear despite my insistence that it would be “funny.” Try as I might he could not be convinced,  making me feel he somehow knows something about missing male underpants that I should not question. 

So here we are all tucked up in our little house after a triumphant move/pack/purge/organise fest. The success is found mostly in the fact that I didn’t get pissed off at Marc all until yesterday. I boiled over when I re-discovered 97 wine bottles in the basement. It’s a re-discovery because I already knew they were there (although did not fully appreciate how “deep” the pile was), but had forgotten, allowing me to get freshly ticked off when I stumbled upon it anew. (Sorry, the waiting list to married to me is now closed).  I believe our conversation went something like this: 

Me pissed off with purpose Hey Marc, come here. 

Marc: silence. 

Me: with more purpose Maaarc. 

Marc: silence. 

Me: with even more purpose MARC, come in here please. 

Marc: Um, yeah? 

Me: There are about a bgillion wine bottles in the basement. 

Marc: laughing (which was awesome – and helpful) I know. Lots of wine bottles. 

Me: Why are they still there? 

Marc: I thought that was obvious. 

Me: I thought you were going to take them back. 

Marc: I was, but there’s never a good time. Taking them back would take away from our family time which I’m sure you wouldn’t like. 

Me: gagging on the bile on my throat Really? How good of you. If I was so concerned about you taking away from our family time, how do you explain me bugging you to take the wine bottles back for the past two months. 

Marc: again laughing, which is again, awesome. You have not asked me to take the wine bottles back for the past two months, besides, I planned to return them today. 

Me: In earnest If you’re being honest and not an asshole, then I’m worried and think you should have your hearing checked. 

Marc: Why?  I can HEAR YOU FINE RIGHT NOW. 

Me: You’re dumb, and your punishment for these 3 minutes I will never get back is that you cannot buy anything from The Beer Store when you return them. (I know, odd place to return wine bottles). 

Marc: indecipherable sound of disgust. 

Makes you want to bang our heads together doesn’t it?  Our conversation ended there (miraculously) and good as gold, Marc trotted off and returned the wine bottles.  All our effort amounted to a whopping $15 and no beer, which might make me dumb. But don’t tell Marc. 

Pictures of our shit third floor to come, followed by the gloriousness of ripping it out which STARTED TODAY! 

p.s. Jess, that pancake picture was our morning kitchen. Meet evening kitchen: 

striped bag = knitting bag = always where i am = always in the kitchen

 

 Feel better? 

Advertisements