Whiskey and Smokey spent their high school years living with Dad. That’s the fun thing about having two sets of parents – you get to choose which parent suffers through your teenage years.

This meant, among many, many other therapy inducing complications, that at my father’s house on Jubilant Court, there were two teenage boys sharing a bathroom.

Oh Dear God, I hear some of you say. I’m sorry, I should have added a trigger warning to those of you who’ve suffered through this. Teenage boys are basically just wild animals who wear underwear. And every day, if you’re lucky enough to have teenage boys who are aware of the body odor:hot girl inverse proportionality, those wild animals will bathe themselves with actual soap and water (and, lord help us, not just more body-spray).

Every day this happens, one pair of nasty underwear will land on the bathroom floor like so much shed snakeskin.

And there, it will stay.

Indefinitely.

Because unlike snakeskin, boys do not pick up underwear (and pin it to their walls).

At some point, the pile of discarded underwear becomes an actual hurdle to be jumped when entering the bathroom (a feat I would not recommend).

As you can imagine, the parents of the house grew a bit weary constantly imploring that the underwear might actually need to be cleaned at some point. Like, in the washing machine. Most parents…most mothers, I should say…at some point crack and sweep all the panties into a bin and wash them. Because all the nagging in the world won’t make the increasingly musty smell in the hall go away.

Dads are different. At least, our dad was different. Our dad made a series of signs calling for one and all to visit the famed “Underwear Museum of Jubilant Court!” Ticket prices were reasonable and smells were free. “Donations gladly accepted! (tax forms provided)”

Turns out, that which can’t be achieved with nagging, can sometimes be achieved with sarcasm and some nice graphic elements.

I only bring this up because I used to think it was a charming quirk limited to teen boys. Then I got married. Now, I have another budding underwear museum hoping to open to the public in the near future. It’s a mostly domestic collection but, thanks to inlaws who travel, there are a couple of unique European items in the mix. Apparently, men never grow out of this bent for curating personal exhibitions.

So, ladies, if you feel like an underwear museum is taking over your bathroom, do me a solid and just let it build. I’m honestly curious to see how large a pile of underwear gets before a man picks it up. Feel free to take a photograph of it and add it to instagram, #underwearmuseum. Maybe use a nice filter though – so we don’t have to see any skid marks.