“Oh, I don’t want to bother you by dropping off my dirty laundry at your house. Maybe you could just look at it when you clean the litterbox.”
I can’t decide if my father is suffering or celebrating my mother being unavailable to cook, clean and wait on him like a toddler. He seems to be living some Phi Sigma Kappa frat house flashback. The dirty clothes just fall off his body and stay where they land while the hamper sits empty and untouched. Instead of putting a bag in the trashcan, he puts his trash (which consists entirely of fast food bags) in the kitchen sink. The fridge is stocked with nothing but condiments. The mail and newspapers are piled on the table, the counters and the floor. At least he gives the cat a scoop of food every day.