The Pile is one of those things that I have worked very hard at trying to forget. The Pile is a perfect time to borrow from the husband’s toolkit and apply the “ignore it and it will go away” tactic. Not that I haven’t been clear that I hate the Pile — I have been very vocal in describing my feelings about it. “Could you clean up the G.D. #*%$#@ Pile!!! .. NOW” None-the-less, the Pile lives on.
So on those very rare occasions when I make the brave move to bring the vacuum into that foreign land known as ‘upstairs’, I begin steeling myself to come face to face with the Pile. Our bedroom is set-up so that one side of the bed (HIS side) is just far enough away from the wall for someone squeeze in and get into bed. It was never intended as a closet or a makeshift laundry basket, much less home to the Pile. Still, when I work up the courage to bring my beloved Dyson to his side of the room, I have to be prepared to find a variety of well worn socks, t-shirts, underwear, newspapers and God knows what else that gets discarded in the Pile when he crawls into bed every night. What amazes me is that he can dump it all there, piece by piece, night after night and get up in the morning and walk over it as if it’s not there. What the hell? Is that the whole selective male blindness thing again?
Well, not unlike his belief in the dish fairies, I can only assume that he expects that it’s the laundry fairies who step up and handle the Pile. Fortunately, I have now figured out a way to save those little darlings some work. I wonder how long it will take hubby dear to realize, like I did, that not only is the Dyson a fabulous vacuum, it is also a very fine bulldozer.