Monday, January 12, 2009
I most certainly do not heart laundry.
Yes I recently got two fab new front loading things, just like the ones Kelly Rippa is always hawking on the teevee. Funny how they haven't made me any thinnner. Maybe I need the stove and the oven too.
And yes it has been delightful to feel all green and conservationish with all the water and electricity I am saving as I clean all the grubby boy clothes.
But laundry still sucks hard. I hate every single mother loving load.
Especially the one I spent 10 minutes folding yesterday. I knew right off that something was weird. The washcloths were dry and crunchy, the napkins still had some red sauce on them, and Tate's little tiny boxers were all bunchy in the crotch. But it was early, the coffee hadn't kicked in, and it's not like I was gonna be sporting those boxers, but still....
I was bamboozled.
Until I realized that Prince Notso Charming had taken a half a load of dirty clothes out of the washer and dried them. Baked the dirt right into them into some sort of factory finish. And I spent 10 minutes folding the damn dirty things.
When I asked him if, maybe, just maybe, the clothes seemed just a touch too dry for clean wet clothes he mumbled something about how I kept bragging that the spin cycle did such a good job.
OK so maybe I shouldn't have left half a dirty load in the washer. But I am 47, and so easily put off task that when I left the mud room to go find some more "medium coloreds" I got side tracked and never went back to run the load.
So to punish him I accidentally ran his wallet through the wash in the back pocket of his khakis.
It made me feel a tiny bit better. Not chardonnay better or new shoes better but maybe warmed-up-in-the-nuker-coffee better.