Unfortunately, it all comes out in the wash.

We are moving. I should be looking into selling my house. I should be looking into buying a house. I should be calling contractors for the minor work that needs to be done. Or, maybe I should empty the dishwasher and take a shower. But, as my kids would say, "I DON'T WANNA!" So, instead, I'm going to enlighten y'all on the Morris family wash.

If I don't go through Mike's pockets before throwing everything into the washer, it's like playing laundromat russian roulette. You'd think I'd learn after having to pick out billions of Kleenex particles from my clothing and then vaccuming out the washer. But, sometimes I get lazy. And, slackers pay the price.

Luckily, this week, I had my A-game on. I successfully retrieved every random tchotchke he had stuffed in his pants before they made it into the machine. Sometimes I wonder if he does this on purpose to test my mettle. He claims he's innocent. You be the judge. Here's a pictoral of some stuff I've found. To keep you on your toes, I threw in a few extras. Let's see if you can spot 'em.

On a somewhat unrelated note. After reading my blog yesterday, Mike suggested I pose a question at the end of each post. I said, "Well, that would imply that I care about what others think!" He stared at me like I was an alien, shook his head and walked away. Of course, I was being facetious.

So, here goes. What's the weirdest thing you've found in your husband's pants?
(Yes. I know I will soon regret how I phrased that question.)

Things found in Mike's pants.


All the time.


Let's keep this one on the down low.


Okay. No.


Sacre bleu! You damn, Kleenex. I spit on you and your mother.


Always find at least three. I put them back in the Altoids tin.


Yup.


Surprise!


Well, if Aboriginal Jimmy Walkabout does end up in Mike's pocket,
we're keeping him. He seems like an interesting chap.