I think I've mentioned that Thomas is moving out. He's getting his first apartment, and he's pretty pumped up about it. He came down the other day and asked me if I'd help him pack. I shivered at the thought.
I told him he should start with his clothes first. Do the winter clothes now, and save what he needs to wear this week till later, but bring down the dirty clothes, cause I didn't want him packing away dirty clothes. "I don't have any dirty clothes," said the heir to the throne. Sure. Right. Those of you who have read about his laundry in the past know that it is a thing to be feared.
I went up to his room, and was met with the normal view -- floor covered with clothes. I pointed to one pile and asked, "what is that?" He said "oh, those are dirty." "So you DO have dirty clothes up here. What about these?" I pointed to the pile next to the other one and asked "what's up with these?" "Oh, those are clean." Just exactly how he could tell the difference is something that only a nineteen year old boy would know.
I folded a few things and got him started, then left him to his own devices, telling him to bring the dirty stuff down. A little bit later, he comes down with half a hamper of clothes. I told him that no way was that all of it. He said "well, you don't want it all. There's a LOT." OK, now we're getting to the bottom of it. I told him to go back upstairs and toss down the dirty stuff, cause I was doing laundry, and wanted to do it all at one time. The result was an avalanche of clothes that darn near could've knocked me out, and completely blocked anyone from the stairs.
At this point, I yelled up "throw your sheets down, too." "WHAT," he replied. "THROW YOUR SHEETS DOWN." I gave up all hope with the response:
"I have sheets?"