Adam and I were in the car the other day discussing his birthday plans, and heÂ told meÂ that I am “required” to come out to the cabin with him for a snowmachine trip next weekend (his bday is the 19th). Thinking back to the last time I was at our little cabin in Talkeetna, I remembered that while I was *a little* intoxicated over New Year’s Eve I *may* have stepped in a bit of dog doo. Or a freaking POOL of it, from the looks of my boots. Which I haven’t cleaned off yet, because, well, it’s disgusting and I have a majorly sensitive nose (and gag reflex). So they’ve been sitting outside our garage for like a month. Also, I forgot about them.
So… obviously I can’t use them again until they are cleaned, and according to Adam I’m going snowmachining next weekend. Being me (a squeamish, conniving sexpot), I thought I’d use my uber-sexiness as a bargaining tool…
Me: So… (seductively)… what do I have to do to get you to clean my boots off?
Adam: What do you mean?
Me: You know, like, a deal. What do I need to DO in exchange for you cleaning my snowboots.?
Adam: (without missing a beat) Finish my laundry.
Me: Seriously? Laundry? No sexual favors???
Adam: That’s not an even trade! You’re asking me to do something shitty – (ha, ha) – in exchange for you doing something fun! Don’t disguise it like it’s only funÂ for me. Now do we have a deal or what??
Me: *sigh* I guess. Do I have a deadline?
Adam: Sure. When do you want me to wear clean underwear by?
Yep. Marriage. Soooo glamorous.
*side note: I never do Adam’s laundry. I took a stand like, 5 years ago when I realized I was spending half my life in the laundry room. Now I get mad when I find out even one of his socks has slipped into my laundry basket… so this is a Big. Deal. And he totally knows it… Brat.