Mr. Clean

Jake's laundry handicap has been something of a running joke throughout the course of our marriage. He has a very, very difficult time seeing that dirty clothes make it into the hamper. They land on the bathroom floor, strewn about the bedroom, or somewhere else inconvenient, but in the proximity of the washing machine. But rarely do they land in the hamper. In our old house, I even bought a second laundry basket for the top of the basement stairs. (I'd rather not call it "enabling." I prefer to think of it as "keeping my sanity.")
Now, not only does Jake have his wife to nag him about this, but his mother as well. The result?
Today, upon taping up the Ghoulie's clean diaper, he asked, "Do I really need to put her pants back on? It's warm in here, and she seems so much happier with them off." I shrugged. Didn't matter to me until we had to leave the house, and that wasn't for another hour. (Note: He knew we'd be preparing to leave soon.) At which point I asked him, looking around the living room, "Hey, where'd you put her pants, anyway?"
Can you guess, can you guess?
Yup.
"Uh, in her hamper."
They tell you there's a first time for everything. What they fail to mention is, it will be the most inconvenient time possible.