Dirty

Camille and I were pondering life's unanswered questions the other day. No, not the meaning of life, global warming, or the crisis in the Middle East. We pondered how it is that things get so dirty. We understood the obvious, like our husbands underwear, our kitchen floors, and childrens hands'. But what about the others?
Neither one of us could remember eating crackers or emptying our toasters over the silverware drawer. Yet the crumbs in the Rubbermaid holders tell a different story.
I could not remember using the top refridgerator shelf as a fondu pot, but I must have, because when I attempted to get the jelly jar out, it held on to a strong chocolate substance for dear life.
In that same refigerator I discovered that someone must be eating directly out of the vegetable drawer, because it was full of onion skins, two peices of lettuce, a baggie with the end of tomato, and the same chocolate from the top shelf.
Lastly, Camille and I both need to find a way to tell our rude and inconsiderate dogs that they need to put their hair in the trash when they groom and shake instead of leaving it in the corners and under the couch.