The Laundry is Trying to Kill Me.

Hey, listen, sorry I didn’t make it to that party you had this weekend. It sounded like a LOT of fun and I was really looking forward to it. Happy birthday, anyway.

Oh, and that trip to the pool we had planned with the kids? That sounded like a great time, too. Sorry I missed that.

My floors need to be swept, the blinds need to be dusted, the dishes need to be done. My car needs gas and the dogs and frogs need to be fed.

That project I told you I’d help with? Haven’t even started. It WAS sitting on the chaise lounge, where I wouldn’t forget it… but now I can’t seem to find it UNDER THIS ENORMOUS PILE OF FUCKING LAUNDRY.



I swear I spend half my life gathering, sorting, carrying, loading, unloading, loading again, unloading again, loading again, unloading again, folding, re-folding, and putting away. I haven’t seen my chaise in months. It’s buried under a never-ending stack of towels, sheets, gym clothes, pajamas, t-shirts, errant socks and underwear.

The Arduous Laundry Process starts Friday night and continues through the weekend, until Sunday around 10pm when I finally finish Load #115, and I cry a little because I’m SO SO SO GLAD that shit’s finally over. Not the big Ugly Cry, mind you — just a few tiny teardrops of grateful-to-be-done-ness that quietly roll down my cheek until I brush them away, ready move on to the next thing. Like, maybe, SLEEP.

And I DO sleep. Peacefully. Totally content in the knowledge that the Arduous Laundry Process has been checked OFF my To Do List. In my dreams, unicorns dance under sparkly rainbows and sweet-smelling babies float on clouds and everyone is HAPPY! because I, The Hero, have taken their soiled sheets and pajamas far away to the Land of Bad Things and replaced them with soft clothes and linens that are CLEAN! and FRESH! and it’s like they’re brand new, but EVEN BETTER! We all rejoice in the Land of Wonderful Lovelies! Even my superhero cape smells like fresh rain!

But then Monday morning I wake up, and the Wonderful Lovelies are no more. Instead, I face a dark, horrible, epic nightmare. A WHOLE NEW LOAD of dirty clothes and linens has magically materialized overnight and scattered itself around the house. As I rush to get myself and the Bean ready for work and school, it mocks me from every room — MWAH AH AH AHH! So naïve! You thought you were done! But you will NEVER be done!! You will DIE among a load of unwashed delicates, haunted by the question of Woolite versus Regular Detergent!! HAR HAR HARRR!

I cover my ears and pretend I don’t hear it, but deep down inside, I know it speaks the truth.

So Monday night it begins again. I faithfully perform my motherly, wifely duty (hee hee! I said “duty”! AS IF!) and not-at-all-cheerfully complete Steps 1 through 157 (or 6 or something) of the Arduous Laundry Process. But when I reach the final step of PUTTING AWAY, I make the extremely unwise decision to walk away — leaving the beautifully cleaned and folded items there on the chaise. They look so pretty. I just want to admire my handiwork for a few moments. IS THAT SO WRONG?

Apparently, yes. The insane people I live with do not see the beauty in my freshly laundered, neatly organized pretty. They only see a big, neat stack of shit that MUST BE DESTROYED, and in those very few moments, before I can reach them to make it stop — that is exactly what they do.

The Bean thinks it is HIGH-LAAAAARIOUS!!!!!! to jump directly INTO the stack and toss all the individual pieces into the air, like a pile of leaves on a beautiful fall day. But the difference is, it’s NOT fall, it’s summer, and the laundry is NOT leaves, it’s clothing that I painstakingly washed and dried and folded, only to see them thrown into chaos while the Bean screeches with glee and gives me that look – you know that look, right? The look that says SCREW YOU BITCH. I WIN.

And the Big Bean? That motherfucker just STANDS THERE and LETS IT HAPPEN. And LAUGHS. As if it was FUCKING CUTE, or something.

Okay, I admit it. It IS kind of cute. Or at least, it WOULD be if it was happening to someone else. But it is NOT happening to someone else. It is happening to ME, and I AM PISSED, and I cry again. Still not the Ugly Cry, but not the grateful happy cry, either. No, these are tears of pure, blazing anger. So much work, so much sacrifice. And do these people appreciate it? NOT ONE LICK.

I used to have a life. Now I just have… LAUNDRY.


Anyway, to make a long story short (ha ha ha hee hee hoo!!), the next day is a repeat of the last, with the Arduous Laundry Process beginning again, yes, again. I get through Step #1 and I’m about halfway through Step #2 when DAMMIT I CAN’T DO THIS AGAIN. I. JUST. CAN’T.

So I stop sorting and haphazardly throw caution to the wind, along with ALL THE LAUNDRY, ALL TOGETHER, into the ancient machine (yes, ancient… wedding gift… we’re talking 1996, people). The rebellion has begun. As I close the lid, I ask myself — Really, what’s the worst that can happen?

Oh, hello there, FAMOUS LAST WORDS. I was wondering where you were.

Of course, I don’t realize right away that I’m back in the Land of Bad Things. Oh, no. I live in ignorant bliss (I’m living proof that there IS such a thing) until about 45 minutes later, when I step over the ever-present stream of leaked old-machine water to open the lid and face both SHOCK and HORROR as I stare into a tub of PINK.

And THAT’S when the Ugly Cry starts.

So it goes. On and on and on and on. Another phase of the eternal battle between Good and Evil. An infinite descent into the dark abyss of pain, drama, futility and desperation. Each day brings more of it – LOADS and LOADS of anguish and injury and despair.

The Laundry is trying to kill me.

And so far, it’s doing a pretty good job.

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