I am so envious of those people who actually “finish” their laundry each week. I have no idea how they do it, and I have no idea what that looks like. I think I have some kind of enchanted laundry that multiplies as it sits
on the floor of the bedrooms, hallway and bathrooms in the hamper. Just when you think you may be nearing the end — abracadabra spraynwashorama — a knee-high pile of dirty underwear magically appears.
Here, we get excited when there are actually enough clean towels for everyone and when we don’t have to dig out the Scooby Doo beach towel to dry off.
Just where does all this dirty laundry come from? Yes, there are five of us in the house, but we can’t possibly be wearing all of this. I suspect someone is sneaking into my house at night and dumping off their dirty laundry, too. I think I’m going to have to set up a surveillance camera to catch them in the act. I’m pretty sure that is punishable by law. If not, it should at least require restitution for my pain and suffering.
I have fantasies about throwing all of our dirty laundry into the backyard, raking it into one big pile and lighting a match. That would be a bitchin’ bonfire.
I have also contemplated declaring our home a nudist colony. Boys #2 and #3 run around the house in their underwear the majority of the time, anyway, so going completely nude wouldn’t be too much of a stretch. (Side note: Running around in their underwear was kind of cute when they were 2 and 4, but now that they’re almost 7 and 9…notsomuch.)
The nudist colony thing, however, might be a bit difficult for me to adjust to. I don’t like to see myself naked, so I’m not sure I want the Schwann’s Man or the FedEx Guy seeing me in all my “glory” (which is a synonym for “flab”). And I’m pretty sure the owner’s manual for the lawnmower states that one should never mow naked. Although I wouldn’t have to worry about loose clothing getting caught in the blades…
Someday, when I’m rich (I can’t believe I kept a straight face when I typed that!), I’m going to live in a mansion that has its own laundromat. Except you won’t have to put money in the machines. Or sit on a hard, plastic chair next to a man you suspect is on the sexual offenders list while you watch the dryers spin.
Until then, I guess I’ll just have to keep plugging away at the bottomless piles of socks and jocks and try to keep my head above water. That reminds me — the dryer just buzzed. Time to switch loads.