Mr. Snark last put away a basket of laundry back in 1979. It was the cold war and his mother threatened his nuts.
Some couples fight about money or fidelity. Mr. Snark and I duke it out over folded baskets of clean clothing. I wash, sort, and fold the laundry. Load it into baskets that are then distributed to each male. The expectation is the laundry should be put away in drawers and the baskets returned.
My boys hem and haw, but they’re always in compliance within a day or two.
Not so with Mr. Snark. He holds onto his laundry baskets for weeks. Hordes them like a miser. Stacks two, and then three, and then four. Until I’m fuming and start figuring out how to get rid of the body.
I’ve tried hiding his clothing. Stacking baskets upon chairs and in front of computer monitors. Trickery. Bribery. Outright threats to his nuts.
This morning, I awoke to the sound of Mr. Snark furiously opening and closing drawers. Muttering. I drifted back to sleep and when I awoke again, I discovered the man had put away every single last stick of clean clothing.
I gawked, incredulous. “What happened?”
His eyebrows knit into that caterpillar unibrow. “I ran out of pants. I figured you’d hidden them. That you’d figured out I have unlimited numbers of socks and shirts. But a finite number of pants. I can’t live without pants.”
I almost died laughing. “Man, that’s diabolic! I’m so glad you thought of it!”