Laundry and I, we’ve had a tenuous relationship as of late.
When I got back from the Windy City, having been free of domestic responsibilities for four days straight, I had a hard time getting back into the swing of things. The professor got home one day and said: ‘the house never looked like this when you were gone.’
I’d been put on notice.
So I tackled the laundry pile. I washed everything. Patting myself on the back for being such a workerbee.
But there was a small glitch. We don’t have any laundry baskets. You know, those plastic rectangular things that most people use to deposit freshly laundered or newly folded clothes before dispersing them to their rightful place? Truth be told we have one but it holds the laundry detergent and is a sticky, soapy mess. So, most of the time, I remove loads of dried clothes from the dryer and dump them in a pile in the basement (on the carpet). Where – if everything goes according to plan – I will kneel and fold laundry, sorting our clothes into five different piles.
But on this particular occasion, things did not go according to plan. Instead, things happened, and a day later, there the pile of clean clothes remained. So the professor, thinking the clothes were dirty, kicked everything back onto the laundry slash utility room floor. Commingling what was clean with what is dirty on an undoubtedly dirty floor.
It was the domestic setback of 2012. Three, four, maybe five loads would need to be rewashed, redried, and redumped on the floor in the hopes of ultimately being folded and put away.
It was more than I could bear and I fell – completely – off the laundry wagon. A week or so later I attempted to get back on. I found my way through the maze of dirty clothes and washed it all. Again. And this time I actually folded all of it and carried the little piles of people’s stuff into my room where I deposited said piles on my dresser.
I fully intended to put it all away after Percy woke up from his nap.
A week or so ago.
But things happened. Or, in this case, things didn’t happen. And I found myself on the evening of March 19 facing a bedroom that threatened to be subsumed by an avalanche of clean clothes.
‘I guess I’ll go tackle the laundry in our room,’ I sighed heavily, trying to psych myself up for the somewhat overwhelming task.
‘Thanks,’ the professor said. The way someone might ‘thank’ an employee when they finally get around to meeting a long-gone deadline. ‘Did you just thank me for doing laundry,’ I growled. Feeling every bit like one of the housewives in my latest obsession, Mad Men. (Sans the constant stream of cigarette smoke and maraschino cherry-dotted drinks.)
‘Uh, no, I said thanks for the orange you brought me,’ the professor stammered; staring with renewed interest at the plated citrus beside his computer. Unfortunately for him, I’ve known the man half of my life and I knew he had not thanked me for citrus. ‘No you didn’t, you already said thank you for the orange, you were saying thanks…..for the laundry.’
As in ‘it’s about time you restored order to that glorified utility room where we sometimes lay our weary heads,’ thanks.
He laughed the laugh of the guilty-as-charged.
So I retired to the utility-bedroom and refolded/sorted the clothes. While watching Mad Men.