In a perfect world....this would actually be a realistic means to get that shit done!

I came across this today on my best friend in the whole wide world…… Facebook.  What struck me as completely ironic is that I was waist deep in the midst of my  OWN  laundry debacle.  I was faced with being permitted to choose only  ONE  of two options…..1) be a halfway decent mom to the penis people today and actually participate in their funny penis people antics…or 2) do the damn laundry that is multiplying by the day at a positively staggering rate.

I’m not even ashamed to admit that I chose the first option.

There are  only four people  that  LIVE  in our house.  And yet, weekly, I am faced with piles and piles of laundry that could  EASILY  clothe a small army.  I also live with the Dick, whose sole pet peeve in this world is my  absolute loathing  of  DOING  laundry….the washing, the stain fighting, the  REWASHING  of many  MANY  loads that I’ve left it in the washer (CLEANED….SHUT IT…YOU KNOW WE’VE ALL DONE IT) for days on end so that I could go and have a life that exists outside my laundry room doors (and we all  KNOW  that smell of funk that emits from  THAT  bit of  and-I-just-don’t-give-a-shit moments).  The transferring from washer to dryer….the drying the shit that needs to be dried and hanging the shit that will shrink to Barbie size if its even placed  TOO CLOSE  to the running dryer…..the folding the items that is a pain in the ass to even get it to fold properly (hello……fitted bed sheets).  Some days (ok,  MOST  days) I can pry my exhausted ass off the comfy couch  JUST  long enough to get it folded…putting it away is not always a part of the plan that pans out.   Ironing????    I’m completely unfamiliar with this concept because I don’t bother with it.  If it’s wrinkly and you wish it to  NOT  be wrinkly, you can dig the iron out of the back of the hall closet…..then sidle your ass up to the dining room table with a pillow case in hand and iron that shit  YOUR DAMN SELF ….luckily for me the young penis people have really low clothing standards and could give two shits about wrinkles in their clothes….it just keeps them from having to do all that wrinkling themselves and leaves more time for toys.  And me…..well….. sweat pants are miraculous gifts from God that NEVER need to be ironed.


I came from a home where my mother did laundry with an authority and precision that could easily command a space launch at NASA.  Everything was properly separated according to the color wheel…..the precise temperature needed to achieve maximum perfect laundering was  ALWAYS  used….and items were magically placed in our dresser drawers while we were out, clean and ironed within an inch of its life.  She trusted  NO ONE  to touch neither her precious washer or dryer….or the clothes within either.  We were simply instructed to hand it over to her and know that it would return in better shape than when it left us. This is specifically why I spent the entire first decade (OK, maybe not an  ENTIRE  decade, but pretty damn close) of my life with the Dick unable to fathom the intricacies of doing laundry.  When he and I first moved in together (sinners that we were)……we each made a weekly pilgrimage to our respective mothers’ homes in order to drop off/pick up  our laundry.  We didn’t even  OWN  a washer nor dryer until we finally said our nuptials.   By then it was more a case of….well that’s what married people OWN….not  OH, WE SHOULD REALLY BE WASHING OUR OWN DAMN UNDERWEAR  BY NOW.  And it was right about then that my MIL taught her darling son to properly wash clothes…. and then HE taught ME. So now the ruse was up and  HE knew  that  I knew  what to do and how to do it.  And this bit of information has promptly taken its place as the number one reason that he and I bitch at one another  AT LEAST  once a week.


I consider myself a fairly smart cookie.  I can generally multi-task like a bad ass.  I clean the rest of my house like I’m having company daily (ok, I might be exaggerating a little there).  And yet…..there the laundry sits….mocking me and climbing and weaving itself up the wall of my laundry room, having long since out-grown the basket meant to contain it.  There have even been a few times that it tip-toed up the basement stairs and waved at me from the landing…..mocking bastard laundry.


I hate separating clothes by lights and darks.  I would much rather just toss it all in haphazardly and hope in vain for the very best outcome.  Towels quite often find their way in with the regular clothes, which means that there will be towel fuzz on every dark item contained within the same load.  The Dick has had pink-tinted laundry returned to him on more than one occasion and he is becoming increasingly less amused.  Everything gets washed in cold and I can only hope that its clean enough in the end to keep flies from swarming around us Pig-Pen style.  Once its folded, you can bet your sweet ass it will stay in a basket and that the penis people and the Dick will spend  AT LEAST  a day or two rooting through the basket in search of their respective shit.   Odder still is that when  I DO  the laundry…….the order (if you can even CALL it THAT) goes a little like this : wee penis person’s clothes….older penis person’s clothes……MY clothes…….towels……sheets…..the Dick’s clothes (unless all this nonsense runs in to the following week, in which case, I start back at the top of the list and the Dick can either go naked or buy new shit or wash his own shit).


I find it’s easier to blame the people who built our house…..and then chose to put the laudry room in the basement.  The mere fact that this room is  SO  far away and  SO  easy to avoid nearly guarantees that laundry will be a distant  DISTANT  priority.  Add to that the fact that some genius put a door on this room and made it even easier to close it……well…..I just think its wisest to blame the house builder.  And since its  THEIR  fault, maybe I can convince the Dick to call  THEM  when he’s out of clean undies…..let them rectify their poor judgement by doing his laundry for him.  It would seem its the very  LEAST  that they can do…..since its  THEIR  fuck up.  I am nothing if not tenacious about finding a way to pass this off on to someone else.