.....and then we all got the stomach flu.
So the weekend was filled with purging and upheaval and I didn't even get to clean out any closets.
Luckily it hit the kids first, so there were two capable parents to tend to the needs of the children. Unluckily, it hit Brock and I at almost the exact same time. Brock at 10:45 p.m. and me at 11:55 p.m. on Sunday night. Then he was done and drifted off to dreamland while I was back up every hour until 5:40 a.m. -including the hour that consisted of me trying to comfort a screaming baby and having to throw him back into his crib while still shrieking because I had that familiar mouth watering feeling (Brock was lying in bed because "being up" made him dizzy~ which he told me all about in a overly dramatic man-is-ill-probably-dying-at-any-moment fashion). I swear. I got every freaking detail. Every. Single. One.
So as I was lying in bed this morning, I hear the sound of my husband rummaging through his drawer. Mistakenly, I sat up and said "Can I help you find something?" only to be greeted by the sight of my husband's pasty naked arse peeking at me out from under his tee-shirt. I was not ready. You see, we have "discussed" this multiple time. The conversation has gone like so:
Me: Please stop wearing a shirt with no pants or underwear. It's creepy.
Him: But I'm cold.
Me: Then you should put on pants.
Him: But it's comfortable.
Me: I don't give a fuck what it feels like. Just stop. For the sake of our sex life. Stop. If you are going to be without bottoms, you need to be shirtless too. It is the way it works for men.
Me: While we are on the subject, you can't wear "just socks" either.
And I hoped that I would never witness that kind of Shirt-But-No-Pants horror again.
In his defense, the poor man was in the middle of getting dressed and apparently out of clean underwear. Although... it didn't seem like that much time had gone by since I had washed our clothes... but I had spent the last few days washing only the children's items, seeing as they had been the ones puking on their bedding. So I momentarily forgave him of his peek-a-boo booty and jumped out of bed to help him find some bottoms ASAP. And when I reached into the drawer I immediately found not one, but FIVE pair of clean underwear. FIVE. I didn't even dig. Like, at all.
Shirt with no pants: Not excused. Major Foul.
Man's lack of ability to see things directly in front of them: Fucking mind boggling.
Image of my husband in his "comfy outfit": Burned into my brain. Forever.
Guess what I did today? I washed ALL of his underwear.
DAILY TIP: To you men out there. Here is the proper order of getting dressed: UNDERWEAR. Pause, show pecs and abs, then add pants, flex, then shirt, and lastly, socks. Sexy? Yes. Difficult? No.
P.S. Hey guys! The fucking can opener is in the fucking utensil drawer where it has been for the last fucking 14 years.
P.P.S. I read this to Brock for his approval pre-posting. His response was to defend his nasty shirt-no-pants habit with "But it is kind of like playing double duty; you keep warm but you are ready for action at any minute."
I started laughing and said ,"But you are not going to GET ANY ACTION Brock! That is my point!"
He said, "You don't know that!"
To which I responded solemnly, "Oh, but I do."