Remember yesterday how I told you I make piles of things? It’s not an lie, I really do. It’s bad. Up until yesterday there was a pile of dishes waiting to go in the dishwasher, there is a pile of catalogs and magazines on the ottoman, and quite possibly the worst pile ever known to man is currently residing on top of the dresser in our bedroom.

The first thing I do when I get home is change out of my work clothes. And usually the pants or skirt or sweater I’m wearing can be worn again before having to be washed. While I know I should just go hang it up, I procrastinate and lay it on the dresser for later. I have the best intentions of “later” being before I go to bed, but that never happens.

What happens instead is an enormous pile of clothes (both mine and Michael’s, but really mostly mine) mixed with bras, necklaces and whatever else has been tossed aside for the day. It’s a mess. A huge mess.

Michael HATES the mess. And while he’s mostly tolerant of my “I’ll get to it, I swear!” promises, he’s been bugging me about it lately because it really has taken over the entire dresser, making it impossible to find anything.

This morning his tolerance ran out.

He had to work at six, and had probably over slept as he was rushing around trying to get ready. I woke up to the sounds of him moving things around and grumbling under his breath. I stayed still and pretended to still be sleeping because I knew The Pile was the cause of his angst.

And when his attempt to get into his sock drawer caused The Pile to begin to fall, he’d had enough.

He dumped an entire laundry basket’s worth of clean laundry onto my sleeping body. And went to work.

After he left (and I managed to burrow out from beneath the mountain of laundry) I actually laughed at the ridiculousness of the situation. Then I vowed I would clean up the pile.

I’ll get to it. I swear!

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