Wednesday, February 11, 2009

I Miss Girls.

"Well, I don't have any clean underwear," the DNB announces late one evening.

"That might be because your laundry pile is nearly as tall as my shoulder," I comment dryly. This is not an exaggeration. Some people are surprised to learn that I don't do the DNB's laundry. What makes me love him is that it was never his expectation that I would. That's just how we roll.

"Why didn't you just buy some new ones on your way home?" I ask. Isn't that what dudes normally do?

No, apparently, NO IT IS NOT.

"Nah, I'll be fine," he replies, nonchalantly. "I'll just reuse a pair or two."

I cover my face in horror.

"Baby," he argues. "It's not a big deal. I'll just pick a pair from the middle of the pile, where they'll have gotten some air circulation."

I squeal a little bit from behind my hands. Until I was fourteen, there were four females and only one dirty, dirty male in my family. And even when my first brother came along, we spent so much time dressing him up in skirts and putting lipstick on him that he was practically one of the girls. I was already in college when he came into his own Yucky Boy Tendencies.

"Baby, it's okay." The DNB tries to kiss my forehead, delighted at his ability to TOTALLY GROSS ME OUT using only his words.

I raise my eyebrows at him.

"Fine," he says finally, sighing. "I'll go wash them."


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