What else is there really to say about the laundry?
And yet -- ALL I WANT TO DO IS COMPLAIN ABOUT THE LAUNDRY!
Before I was married I can't say I ever really gave laundry that much thought.
I would wear clothes, occasionally they would become dirty, and then I would journey to the laundry room and wash them, perhaps while reading a novel of my choosing.
Could it be that it was all so simple then?
I mean I guess it could because there was ONE of me and therefore there was ONE set of clothes -- and also I had kind of a lot of free time.
These days there are FIVE of us and I find myself with the unwelcome job of FAMILY WASHERWOMAN.
It is not a role that I relish. Of late it might even be fair to say that it is driving me completely friggin' bonkers.
These days there are FIVE of us and I find myself with the unwelcome job of FAMILY WASHERWOMAN.
It is not a role that I relish. Of late it might even be fair to say that it is driving me completely friggin' bonkers.
Back when there was a spree of post office shootings a theory emerged that postal workers were particularly prone to such violence because of the nature of mail work. The thought was that the sheer relentlessness of the mail made folks go crazy because no matter how hard any given mail person worked, there was always just MORE MAIL to be dealt with.
I gotta say I FEEL YOUR PAIN, CRAZY POSTAL PEOPLE!
I gotta say I FEEL YOUR PAIN, CRAZY POSTAL PEOPLE!
The laundry is like a hydra. You do a load of whites and six more loads spring up in their place. I had a relative staying with me recently, and she kindly lent a hand with the wash. At some point she emerged from the laundry room and proudly announced,
"The laundry is finished!"
I looked at her like a grizzled veteran of a long war and responded,
"For the sake of my own mental health I've come to accept that the laundry? IT'S NEVER FINISHED."
I feel like one of my strengths as a parent and a wife is my ability to pretty much keep it together when things are going totally sideways, but this week the laundry has broken me.
I imagine my children years from now sitting in front of a sympathetic therapist and providing a detailed remembrance of Mommy's screeds, including but not limited to:
"You don't have to unfold all the shirts! Just wear the one from the top of the pile!"
"Get out of the mud!!! I just cleaned those pants!"
and the perennial favorite,
"What is this dress doing in the laundry pile? IT'S NEVER BEEN WORN!!!"
At present absolutely no one is safe from my laundry-based rage.
I assure you that when my husband saw me across a crowded restaurant in Venice, CA back in 2006 he COULD NOT HAVE IMAGINED that just 8 years later I would be standing over him at 7:30am one morning shrieking,
"The laundry is finished!"
I looked at her like a grizzled veteran of a long war and responded,
"For the sake of my own mental health I've come to accept that the laundry? IT'S NEVER FINISHED."
I feel like one of my strengths as a parent and a wife is my ability to pretty much keep it together when things are going totally sideways, but this week the laundry has broken me.
I imagine my children years from now sitting in front of a sympathetic therapist and providing a detailed remembrance of Mommy's screeds, including but not limited to:
"You don't have to unfold all the shirts! Just wear the one from the top of the pile!"
"Get out of the mud!!! I just cleaned those pants!"
and the perennial favorite,
"What is this dress doing in the laundry pile? IT'S NEVER BEEN WORN!!!"
At present absolutely no one is safe from my laundry-based rage.
I assure you that when my husband saw me across a crowded restaurant in Venice, CA back in 2006 he COULD NOT HAVE IMAGINED that just 8 years later I would be standing over him at 7:30am one morning shrieking,
"How can you possibly be going through this many pairs of boxer shorts? YOU ONLY HAVE ONE BUTT!"
All I can hope at this point is that I am merely on a long and stinky path that will eventually lead to laundry acceptance.
STAGE ONE: DENIAL AND ISOLATION: I am all alone! All alone with piles and piles of filthy clothing.
STAGE TWO: ANGER: [insert laundry-based rage spiral]
STAGE THREE: BARGAINING: Fine. I'll put another load in and then maybe I convince my husband to fold it all and put it away.
STAGE FOUR: DEPRESSION: [cut to me sobbing a top a large pile of undershirts]
But if I'm being honest I'm fairly concerned that I may be stuck on Stage Four, because I'm not gonna lie to you,
STAGE FIVE: ACCEPTANCE: seems a long, long way away right about now.
Who knows? Maybe it will come to me if I JUST. KEEP. FOLDING...
All I can hope at this point is that I am merely on a long and stinky path that will eventually lead to laundry acceptance.
STAGE ONE: DENIAL AND ISOLATION: I am all alone! All alone with piles and piles of filthy clothing.
STAGE TWO: ANGER: [insert laundry-based rage spiral]
STAGE THREE: BARGAINING: Fine. I'll put another load in and then maybe I convince my husband to fold it all and put it away.
STAGE FOUR: DEPRESSION: [cut to me sobbing a top a large pile of undershirts]
But if I'm being honest I'm fairly concerned that I may be stuck on Stage Four, because I'm not gonna lie to you,
STAGE FIVE: ACCEPTANCE: seems a long, long way away right about now.
Who knows? Maybe it will come to me if I JUST. KEEP. FOLDING...
