Thus, cleaning was required.
I spent the majority of my energy in the kitchen. Dishes had pilled in the sink and the refrigerator was over flowing with containers of left overs. As I cleaned out the fridge, I compiled about 4 large trash bags of nastiness. As I nearer the end of the bottomless pit of my brother's fridge I grabbed a tupperware full of hardened, congealed queso. This wasn't your ordinary old queso; I couldn't simply pour it into the trash. I had to bulldoze it out with a fork, chunk by chunk. Just when I thought I was done bulldozing, the mass of cheese caused the trash bag to topple over and disperse the contents of the trash...remember, I'm dealing with old leftovers...onto my clean kitchen floor AND on my fairly new tennis shoes AND my blue jeans. Boo on queso.
I proceeded to yell call my husband in the kitchen and made him politely asked him to listen to my rants.
After cleaning my mess and throwing my tennis shoes in the washing machine, I pressed on to further endeavors in the kitchen, including unpacking and reorganizing. As I was reorganizing the spice cabinet I felt an odd wet sensation on my right sock. And whatada know...I was standing in a puddle. This puddle had seeped out of one of those dang trash bags and soaked my sock.
This was not any puddle...it was a puddle of spit....a puddle of spit from my brother...a puddle of spit from my brother's dipping tobacco.
Can you say disgusting?
Then I threw my socks in the wash too