Airing Dirty Laundry
I was inspired to share the following disgusting memory with you after reading Lilly's post this afternoon. Lilly's apparently turned off by people who excavate and clip their calcified toenails in the laundromat - and who can blame her? Here's my favourite gross-out experience.

Prior to marrying Mr. Crabby, I dated another man for five years. Every few months, he and I would drive into Toronto to visit his family, where I was always housed in the "guest bedroom". During those five years, the sheets on the bed in that "guest bedroom" were not changed - not once. I noticed the increasing shabby-factor after three or four visits, and placed a pinch of carpet lint (of which there was a plentiful supply) under the pillow, as a test. At my next visit, I checked under the pillow and sure enough, there was my bit of carpet lint. A mere shadow of the assertive bitch that I am now, I didn't want to say anything, for fear of offending his mother, or because I didn't want to seem like a difficult daughter-in-law-to-be. I was already ten points down with her because I'm not Chinese.

So, I basically wore work-out gear to bed whenever we visited. I slept on those pilled, manky, musty sheets wearing socks, tights, and a sweatshirt. After year three, I covered the pillow with my t-shirt. In year four, I slept on top of the bedspread. In year five, I realized that he was kind of an asshole, and lost interest in pursuing a relationship with his mother who only ever glared at me. Then we broke up.

Six months later, late in the evening on my first date with Mr. Crabby, I surreptitiously checked out his bedding. If he's reading this, he won't be surprised at all to learn this. I was pleased with what I found: a proper duvet and duvet cover, under which were matching, clean-smelling, 250 thread-count all-cotton expensive-looking sheets. Good thing, too, because it wasn't long before I found myself between them.