All day long my family tries to kill me. It’s the stairs see. They are this constant conveyor of crap flowing from up to down then carried back up again to repeat the coming down. The laundry gets dirtied upstairs but cleaned downstairs and then put away upstairs. Toys are hurled down the stairs only to be carried up and then kicked down. Sometimes dirty laundry only makes it half way down the stairs and I try hard not to fall on my butt when traversing the slippery obstacle course. When full laundry baskets go upstairs (usually via child/mule) the empty baskets return, without warning, bounce, tumble and crash down the stairs every time clanging into the joke redneck wind chime, 4 painted tin cans with bottle openers in them hanging by stings, that my inlaws thought fit our lifestyle. Little did they realize what a great alarm system the chimes make by hanging on the gate at the base of the stairs; an alarm system that provides ample coitus interruptus time without having to have one of those awkward Meaning of Life teaching moments. The stair conveyor would almost be humorous if not for my heart trying to wrench out of my chest each time I am startled out of my deep concentration. I honestly wouldn’t mind so much if it weren’t for the cat liter box that sits on the landing of the L shaped stair. A box that when it has things in it other than liter, poo and pee, causes the cat to seek other places to relieve itself such as the laundry or our bed or a nook somewhere in the basement. So every time something plops near the liter box, not only do I have to have a quick cardiac surgery to put my heart back into my chest but I have to walk over to check the liter box. I get a lot of exercise during my day.
Update: I found my wife wiping a joyful tear from her eye as she guffawed over reading this post. She added, "when I’m annoyed with you, I fold like a m-f to get another basket emptied."