I’m not saying that my son’s laundry after his last week as staff at Scout camp is a tad toxic, but the load I just pulled out of the dryer went right back in the washer, with extra detergent and a heaping scoop of borax.

If that doesn’t work, I may have to hang it all outside and let the wind and rain clear out whatever creature from the nether regions has infested his shorts, shirts, and socks.

And if that doesn’t work, we have a firepit. I respect the earth enough to not want that in the landfill.

Also, not sure who needs this information, but if you wash a pack or two of sticky notes in cargo shorts, then run those shorts through a dryer, the little scraps of paper will mold themselves perfectly to the dryer’s drum? Good times, good times.

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Apparently washing my car and watering the garden on the same day gives us two days with bursts of torrential rain. I’ll have to learn how to use this power for good.

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I’m not proud of demanding my payment for pool care duties while my lovely wife was baking her buns on the beach the other week, but I was promised lasagna and I wanted lasagna. I also knew that if I waited much more without collecting, I would never see that tomatoey, cheesy goodness.

So, anyway, she made lasagna and I made bacon fat chocolate chip cookies. It’s these little acts of love that keep our relationship going.

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My wife’s attitude toward the neighborhood wildlife runs within a spectrum. I’d love to see the calculus necessary to describe the area under the curve that runs from “Oh, they’re so precious! I hope we see their babies!” to “Those damned things ate the tops off of all of my tomato plants, and some fool took two parallel bites out of each and every strawberry in the bed!”

If that latter part of the cycle ever coincides with hunting season, I’m going to need a new freezer.