Claus was home riffling through his closet when I heard him loudly pronounce, "What the HELL?"
I was in the other room and thought maybe, from the strength of his voice, that he might have discovered something dastardly, like a big rip in his suit or a mouse hole gnawed through the wall. Heck, once we found a wasp nest in a bedroom of my childhood home.
I hurried in to the room to see the offending problem. He had his jeans on the bed and was bent over them, looking closely.
"What?" I said.
"What is that??" he quizzed.
"What is what?" I repeated.
"That!" he accused.
I am still only seeing dark and metro-sexual man jeans.
He delicately picked up one thin, grey cat hair and held it up to my face for inspection. I'm starting to get the picture.
"That is an Ocho hair," I affirmed.
"That dang cat!" he cursed.
You should know that he is a dog person. I'm half and half, but at this point in life if I have to pick, I pick the dog, too.
In one grand sweeping motion, he picked up his soiled jeans (as if) and hurled them into the laundry hamper. He's annoyed at the cat, but he's annoyed at me, too, for hanging them out to dry in a place the cat could sit on them.
I rolled my eyes at his drama and fetched the jeans. "I'll just pick the hairs off using the sticky roller. Sheesh."
He watched me roll every little bit off to make sure that when he did put them on, he did not sport a cat-furry crotch area.
"Sorry," I offered. Ocho's seating habits are changing and she's recently started sitting on the bannister. Previously she liked the shelving.
Shortly thereafter, I walked out to the laundry area and saw Ocho sitting on Claus' exercise towel. I tried to hide it but he was right behind me and saw the cat.
"Really? So when I go to wipe the sweat off my face I'll look like a cat-hair Yeti now?" he sighed.
I have to find new places to hang stuff in the laundry room. I better do this in a hurry before Husband revokes my Official Housewife Card.