He Uses Them In A Romantic Sort of Way, Is What I'm Saying

So today is the second day full of ramen at the Zipbag household, except last night we were relegated to eating a salad so my plan was to crush up little pieces of ramen noodles and put them on top of the salad like sad little croutons, except then I forgot because (apparently) I was too excited about the salad to be troubled with things like ramen croutons, and so today is really the first day full of ramen at the Zipbag household.

BUT! I did organize the office last night! So there's that...

My husband keeps every single piece of paper he encounters and he shoves them into a drawer behind the tidy row of file folders, and so when I slid out the drawer last night in order to prepare the cabinet for packing, the stupid fucker (cabinet, not husband)(usually) vomited pay stubs and unopened bills onto my lap and I spent the next hour picking pieces of half-digested ravioli out of my hair, the ravioli being PTO forms and scraps of paper consisting of lists of wrestlers, lists of pretend wrestlers to create on his wrestling video game, and lists of chick wrestlers he'd like to...pin.

Now that we're married, I'm legally able to go through his drawers and throw shit away. It says so in the Bible.

And so everything with his SSN went into a "shred" bag while everything with the word "XXX" went into the garbage bag, and now my office is so clean and tidy, I'm not even sure if we want to move into the new house after all. Because moving would just mess everything up again.

Speaking of taking liberties with a spouse's drawers...

...I found at least a dozen pairs of Gray's socks neatly balled up and resting comfortably in MY sock drawer, which is weird because there is no way my OCD would allow me to make that kind of mistake, plus Gray was the last one to "do" the laundry (I've implemented martial law in the Zipbag household, and so my husband has a list of shit to do every night after work. I'm just too busy for the domestic status quo, which consists of waiting for the man to notice the fourteen foot tall pile of dirty laundry or the alien life form growing in the kitchen sink and realize that something should be done about those problems when it's far more efficient to just tell him to do the fucking laundry already). I figured he must have been drunk and simply mistook my sock drawer for his sock drawer (in an entirely separate dresser on the opposite side of the room - again, totally possible).

Later, when I so kindly, gently, not-at-all pointing and laughingly brought this error to his attention, he informed me that they were actually my socks because apparently they were too small for his feet. These socks he has been wearing since I bought them in March. Are too small. For his feet.

And now I can't figure out where the fuck he was wearing them all these months if not on his feet. I know I have washed and folded them dozens of times, so WHERE WAS HE WEARING THEM? On his ears?

On his JUNK?

Wait, that actually explains everything.

And now that I figured out THAT sordid mystery, I can get on with the business of feeding my handsy husband cold ramen for dinner.

Asshole.