The house is a sty. The man is winning his battle against the clothes hamper in the bedroom - clothing is strewn everywhere. Even over the doors of the closets and on the cat's bed. This weekend I'm going to have to try to wrangle him into the realization that if he would like the lovin' to continue, he has to at least attempt to place dirty clothes IN THE FUCKING BASKET. Right now, as I type these words, the basket is sitting there empty, with a moat of dirty clothing all around it. That laundry basket is the castle keep of laundry baskets, an impenetrable fortress.
This weekend will be all about cleaning the house, or rather, urging the man to do his own laundry, relinquish control and allow me to do his laundry, or wake to find himself being smothered by the weight of his dirty clothing. I may even stuff a sock in his mouth for good measure.