Laundry, My Life, and Why it Blows
Laundry is a never ending cycle in this home. I’m always trying to force myself to forget the piles of laundry looming in the background. I hate doing laundry more than I hate U2, and that’s a lot. I really hate U2…and the Police…and Rush. I guess the fact that my dryer is completely incapable of drying a load of laundry in ONE CYCLE adds to my ire. It takes twice as long as it should to do my laundry lest I get a hankering for musty towels and blue jeans that weren’t dried completely in the dryer.
Luckily, I don’t spend much time sorting my laundry. I have three hampers in my house. There is one in the nursery, and two in the master bath. The two in the master bath are for organization. One for whites, one for colors. It helps a lot that I no longer have to sort the laundry. I risk my calm demeanor every time I plunge my clean unsuspecting hand into one of those master bath hampers. "WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT YOU SCAG?!?!" you might be asking. I’ll tell you. I get filled with a completely irrational rage every time I have to put my hand inside one of those hampers because for some odd reason, without fail, the first thing to touch my hand is a pair or Jessie’s dirty underwear. This happens every time. EVERY. TIME. I don’t want to touch those things where he’s been leaking gas and God knows what else all day! I’d just as soon burn the used ones and have him wear new every day so I don’t have to put my poor hands through the skin-crawling torture of having to have his dirty underwear touch me.
I also hate putting away laundry, but I can’t depend on Jessie to do it. I’m a bitch. I’m a bitch who likes thing done a certain way. Jessie folds the towels wrong. He doesn’t roll the socks up correctly, nor does he put the white and colored socks into separate rows so that the drawer is color coded. He folds underwear incorrectly. He puts pants on the hangers wrong. When I was recovered from having Lukas, I was HORRIFIED at the state of my laundry, since Jessie was good enough to help with that. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate that I have a husband good enough to help when I need it, but HE DID IT WRONG! And really, that’s almost as bad as it not getting done at all. I let him help sometimes now. I let him hang up the clothes that go into the closet and I let him fold his underwear, but I cringe when I watch him do these things. He does it wrong. All wrong. My entire body is fighting against my mind. My mind says to let it go, but my body wants to go slap his hands and hog-tie him so he can’t do it wrong anymore. But, marriage is about compromises. My compromise is that I try REALLY REALLY hard to overlook the fact that he puts away laundry in the most incorrect way imaginable, and his compromise is that he pretends I’m not batshit crazy…and look how happy we are!
