Friday Night Cleaning

On Friday night, this really happened.  I don't know when or why, but at some point between eating dinner at home and going out for frozen yogurt later that night, Jared got the itch to start cleaning.  (What?)  It all started because he was Love Gloving Bunny on our bed.  I HATE that.  It means that disgusting amounts of black hair end up on our bed, where Jared normally leaves them until I clean them off and/or strip the duvet and throw it in the washer.  On Friday, I asked Jared as nicely as I could, "Will you please clean the hair off of the comforter now?"  I expected Jared to go grab a lint roller. That's what I would have done.  I turned around for two seconds, and when I turned back, he was vacuuming our bed.  

I said nothing, because let's be honest, shall we?  When your husband decides to clean, it's important to not tell him how he is doing it wrong, because WHY RUIN A GOOD THING?  I learned this two years ago when I criticized Jared for folding the towels "inside out" and in a "square instead of a rectangle."  That's not a joke.  Also, Jared didn't fold laundry for a year and a half after that, and I really don't blame him.  I'm such a jerk.

Shortly after Jared was done vacuuming our bed (ahem), I watched him walk over to the bathroom and grab the hamper and head for the washing machine.  TOTALLY UMPROMPTED.  But wait.  All of a sudden, I hear Jared yell down the hallway, "MEGHANN!  Come here!"  So I walked toward the laundry room, where I found Jared staring in the the great, dark abyss that is the rubber washing machine seal. (We have a front loader.)  And then he says to me, for the millionth time, "Meghann.  You have to remember to CLEAN THIS OUT every time you do laundry." 

And it's true.  I hate that rubber seal, and I don't ever, EVER reach my hand in there.  I used to do it all the time, but I learned quickly that what is found inside the rubber seal is normally disgusting, mainly because I also don't empty pockets before doing laundry.  Also disgusting.  The rubber seal normally contains things like blobs of wet dog hair, mushy receipts, cheap BIC pens, and usually one random, water-logged butterscotch hard candy.  And really...I don't understand the candy because neither of us eats butterscotch candy.  WHERE DOES IT COME FROM?  Nope.  Not sticking my hand in there.  Ever.

So Jared pulls the seal back, and says, "LOOK!  An entire dog treat is in here!  This is so disgusting!"  Yes, I agree, I thought but didn't say.  Then I watched my husband reach in, and scoop up the brown, wet mass of disgustingness, and start piling it into his other hand for disposal.  Well, this is when I just turned around and started to walk away, because I am NOT willing to vomit my dinner back up watching him retrieve a soggy dog treat from the washing machine.  I got halfway down the hallway when I hear Jared say, "Oh my God."  Then much, MUCH louder, "NO. WAY.  Meghann come back."   I walk back, and Jared has one hand up to his face, sniffing his fingers, and he has a look of utter horror on his face, when he proceeds to yell, "That was not a dog great.  THAT WAS DOG SHIT." 

Okay, I'm sorry, but this is amazing.  The fact that Jared just stuck his entire hand into a giant pile of water logged dog poop and was enthusiastically and heroically scooping it out only MOMENTS AGO made me start laughing so hard that I couldn't breathe.  Except Jared didn't think it was funny.  Go figure?  He proceeded to demand to know how dog poop got into the washing machine.  I told him that I SUPPOSE maybe Little Dog pooped in her crate one day, and perhaps the poop was encased in a towel or blanket and I didn't see it before throwing her things into the washing machine?  And maybe the dog poop somehow made it to the rubber seal before totally breaking down, thus leaving it mostly intact for our retrieval pleasure?  But I couldn't be totally sure.  But that seemed legit.  Poor Jared.  By the time I got done explaining, he was already standing at the bathroom sink, furiously scrubbing his hands in an attempt to remove the smell of dog poop.  And I still couldn't stop laughing, because THIS IS NOW THE HIGHLIGHT OF MY WEEK.

That's when Jared's humor apparently ran out, and he threw out the zinger.  All at once, he says, TOTALLY SERIOUS, "You think this is funny?  Just wait until the baby comes, Miss Cloth Diapers.  You're going to have to clean giant, HUMAN poop chunks out of the washing machine all the time." 

Hmmm.  Somehow that thought made me immediately sober up.  You know that phenomenon that happens like maybe a handful of times in your whole life, when you are sobbing uncontrollably and laughing hysterically SIMULTANEOUSLY?  Like your brain can't figure out if this is the most horrible thing ever, or if this is the funniest thing ever?  And every sob is punctuated by shrill laughter?  That happened to me Friday night.  Because seriously, he's right. I can't deal with bodily gross-ness.  I. WILL. VOMIT.

Jared, however, laughed for the next five minutes while I donned rubber gloves and used Pinesol to clean the entire inside of the washing machine.

Not funny, yinz.  Not funny.