The Kid & I were up at the in-laws' for a couple nights while The Hubby is in Sarasota. The MIL offered to do a load of wash last night and I jumped at the chance to return home with clean clothes. This morning they were neatly folded on the kitchen table and when I packed our bags I put the pile of clean clothes on top of my dirty clothes. I opened the bag five hours later... wuh, wuh, vurp. The overwhelming smell of smoke nearly made me barf. The clean & dirty clothes are now in my washer (with an extra rinse cycle). They don't smoke in the house, just in the garage. The washer & dryer are in the garage. She folds clean laundry in the house. So does the smoke just seep into the dryer? Ugh. Shiiiiiiver. Ugh. And just so I don't make this mistake again, I am getting a tattoo that says, "Smoke ≠ Downy."
In other unbelievable news, The Girl's grandparents said that if a boy has "-ez, -burg, or -stein" at the end of his name, she can't marry him. So the arranged marriages hubby & I had hoped to line up with the Gutierrez, Lopez, Steinburg or Hammerstein families are apparently a no-go.