The Adventures of Garlic Man and Wedgy Woman: The grand champion of lazy

My husband was offended when I told him he was so lazy his eyelids didn’t open all the way.

I don’t know why, but laziness seems to be an epidemic at my house. My kids are too lazy to do dishes.

My husband, Ray Barone, is too lazy to wash the car.

No salmonella for me. Even the germs are too lazy to sicken.

Let me tell you how bad it actually became:

Years ago, Huckleberry Hound and I decided to have a lazy contest.

The two of us made the mutual decision to engage in our competition by way of looks and grunts. And it didn’t take too much communication for both of us to know “it was on.”

Day One wasn’t bad: The normal popcorn bag on the seat cushion, sunflower-seed shells on the floor (I hate those things) and open soup cans with contents never warmed, half-eaten and left for the next guy to nibble - all that was expected.

I knew who I was dealing with.

Day Two got a little harder as clothes piled up on the floor, the toilet went unflushed and an unexpected doggie doodie got dragged into the entry hall.

Mr. Formidable Opponent was g-o-o-d.

Day Three’s when I really started to lose it.

Señor Guns and Roses did what is known in our family as a “favor” by going grocery shopping.

You women will know this devious little trick. It’s when Mr. Righteous acts like a hero, but is really saying, “I think you waste too much money and I intend to show you how it really should be done.”

When he arrived back home with $200 in teriyaki sauce and steaks, Sir Helpful McNot did me the “favor” of bringing the groceries in.

But he left the front door open and the flies caught a jet stream to the kitchen. Then he serendipitously tossed the plastic bags into the air and watched them float to the floor like parachutes falling among rainbows on sunny spring days.

I stood there watching, boiling, seething, shaking with compulsion to give up on our little lazy contest.

But I had to admit: He’s good. He’s very, very good.

The cats leapt for the bags and pulled them to earth, foolishly exploring their insides, engaging in this crazy cat-in-the-bag-attack-dance they appear to enjoy. The dogs looked on inquisitively.

Swirls of snarls and painful kitty gasps swept across the floor as Lon Chaney had the nerve to unscrew a brand new bottle of soda, spill ice on the floor, top the tumbler’s rim with caramel liquid and whistle happily as if he were Mary Anne Sunshine.

Outrageous! My face turned beat red as every capillary I had shot to its surface. My head felt faint and I leaned against the back of the couch as he rounded the living room and headed for his favorite “lazy” chair.

“Oh, hi, Honey. I did the shopping for you.”

(The old “I did you a favor so you can’t get mad” trick, eh?)

I smiled - or tried, but lost control of my faculties instead as my facial features began rearranging themselves. The first thing that opened was my mouth.

“I give up!” I shouted as he jarred his cola and fell into his chair. His big, brown-haired head turned toward me, showing me a great view of his fully-opened eyes.

“I can’t take it. You win. You’re the laziest man on the face of the earth!”

He looked at me perplexed. (The old “I don’t know what I did” trick.)

My hands flew into the air.

“You are officially the laziest person in this house,” I said.“You win the laziness contest!”

“We were having a lazy contest?”

Since that day and the horrific 12 hours it took me to clean up, I have resigned myself to cleaning everything. So now I just stuff frustrations, disgust and trash.

There was no introduction to the laundry basket, no explanation of communicable disease.

Why bother? I’m just too lazy.

(Michelle Lovato is a special reporter to The Leader and frustratingly married to the editor for 22 years. Adventures is her ongoing column about his detrimental but humorous affect on her life.)