Tonight was laundry night. If it had been up to me I would have put it off until it was absolutely necessary, but Jason is much better about it than I am. He's always the one making us do laundry and take out the recycling. There are some things I'm better about doing, like vacuuming and litter box duty, but he's the king of laundry. He's even gotten me to put my clothes away the same day they are washed. (I have managed to teach him a few things, like how to sort clothes and match socks).
A couple of months ago I went away for the weekend and Jason picked me up at Midway Airport when I got back on Sunday evening. As we reached our building and rode the elevator up to our apartment, he was updating me on what he'd done over the weekend. The doors opened on the seventh floor and we stepped out into the hall. Just as something on the ground caught my eye I heard him say proudly, "I did the laundry!" And it was at that moment that I realized I was looking at a pair of my underwear, lying in pathetically plain view on the hall floor. And I had no doubt that he had, in fact, done the laundry.
[The above photo is of our actual laundry room]