Underpants.

So we have a little problem in our house with certain members of the family having issues with keeping clothes on. Especially pants. We also have an issue with this certain person leaving his pajamas and underpants in various weird places in the house OTHER than the clothes hamper in the morning, including:

Under the couch.
Under the couch cushions with (a ha!) the remote control and about a billion teensy Lego pieces.
Under the dog’s bed.
In the box of Buzz Lightyear action figures.
On the windowsill (hello, neighbor!).

This morning, I found the offending underpants right away instead of having to look for them: they were right in front of the stereo, where said Non-Pants Wearing Person had hunkered down to hijack Mom’s soothing Christmas tunes with a compilation of selections from Lion King, Veggie Tales, and Pirates of the Caribbean. I thought about leaving the underpants there until he gets home from school so he could, you know, LEARN something and pick them up, but I just couldn’t. I mean, could YOU work in a room with a pair of Hot Wheels underpants staring at you from the floor, mocking you, silently daring you to pick them up and deposit them in the mound of laundry you’re tackling today? No, you could not. And neither could I.

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