"those are my pants, dude"

awkward silence fills the room

directive statements

I went into my bedroom this morning, to help with a lift.  Bob was laying in the bed, having fallen over during a stand.  I noticed, immediately, that he had on a pair of my running pants and not his.  Pretty obvious - the feminin detailing, the length, and the fit.  I said, "dude, those are my pants".

"they fit"

No, they don't.  They are on, yes.  But they don't fit.  I didn't say this, I thought it during the silence that followed - he, me, and the male PSW who is always in a rush and always leaves early and never does the dishes.    Eventually the PSW just got him up and in his chair and my husband sat there, like an old man with dementia wearing someone else's clothes after a nursing home laundry mix up.

I changed him, later.  Partially because he looked absolutely ridiculous, partially because I kinda liked the pants he was wearing and didn't want them wrecked, and partially because I'm embarrassed by how he looked.  

I've now officially ended my patience with this situation.  My husband is to stop being so fucking good natured and have a difficult conversation with his PSW:  do your job.  Dress him properly - pulling up his pants and underwear, tucking in his shirt, and otherwise making him look like a member of society.  Seat him in the chair properly - not leaning or slouching.  Wash the fucking dishes and stop leaving them.  Do Bob's exercises slowly and properly - not a fucking checkbox to get done.  We get an hour a day - and it's whittled down to 25 minutes of substandard care again.

I'm tired of being the mom and the bad guy.  My husband can speak to these people.  He has one week to fix this or I'll file a complaint.  I'm not impressed at all.