I was amazed and awe-struck when S-Factor and I first moved into our house at the amount of laundry one filthy man can accumulate. He would get up in the morning and put on his "yard pants" (Carhartt jeans that are now very very smudgey and oily and dirty and firewoodey) and putter around the yard, mowing pastures or else randomly digging holes in garden-type areas. After he was done with his manchores and with being a general all around GUY in the outsideworld, he would come inside and completely change his garments, right down to his man panties.
Side note: he wears his socks inside out. On PURPOSE! I think I can't be married to him anymore.
On Topic: So then he started work last year and he wears NICE clothes to work (another side note: we bought his entire work wardrobe for fiddy dollah at GOODWILL! Eddie Bauer and J. Crew stuff ikidyounot), and then he would come home and change into his man playclothes and go get dirty in the yard/pasture/driveway/whereverhegoeswheni'mnotlooking, and THEN he would come in and change into his evening attire. Which, I will have you know, is NOT Hefner type PJs and a cigar. It's more like gloves and his Cartman slippers.
Where was I? Ah yesh, laundry. How am I doing a load of delicates EVERY DAY for someone who doesn't even dress herself!?
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