One load at a time

As I sit here, I'm surrounded by mountains, hills, small countries, and even different zip codes, all consisting of laundry. Some is clean. Some is dirty. Some I am unsure about. Laundry starts out small and innocent enough: a shirt here, a towel there. Over the week, however, it grows into a colossal beast from a cheesy sci-fi movie or even a science experiment gone wrong.

Oh yes. Every housewife AKA domestic goddess has a nemesis: Laundry.

In my neck of the woods, laundry is a week long endeavor. I start with the best intentions but somewhere between sorting, starting a load, putting the load in the dry, starting the dyer, taking it out of the dryer, folding it, ironing it, hanging it up, and actually putting it away I screw things up. The shit hits the fan and I say, "Oh, screw it. Emma has two pairs of underwear. It'll suffice." If I ever won the lottery, I'd pay for every mom in the world to have her laundry professionally done. Marriages would be happy! There would be cocktail hour every night, husbands would get blow jobs, and world peace would soon follow. Seriously...I'm onto something here.

Do children and husband's think there is a laundry fairy? Perhaps the envision she, the Grand Laundry Fairy, comes to their home and neatly flicks her wand to magically complete the laundry.

Don't get me wrong: I'm not lazy. Laundry and I simply have a failed connection. Give me a toilet to clean or a kitchen to scrub. I'll do windows. I'll dust. I'll mop. I'll sweep. I'll steam the carpets. I'll make beds. But laundry, oh holy hell, I hate laundry. I loathe laundry. I despise laundry. In fact, for Christmas, I asked my husband to do laundry for a month as my one and only present. Screw perfume and jewelry! Screw clothing. Screw a romantic weekend away - it'll just result in more laundry.

Sigh. It's part of my duties as a stay at home mommy. Duh, did you actually think I remain a Domestic Goddess from eating bon bons on the couch all day and watching Days of Our Lives? Once it's done, however, shit  - I have a touch down dance! I joyously parade through the house ecstatic that I completed something worthwhile in life. Hey - some people climb mountains, some people design rocket ships or cure cancer, and I contribute to society by clothing my kid in clean clothes and saving CPS a trip over here.

In case you're not convinced that laundry sucks, here is why:

1) It never ends. EVER. People keep saying the world will end on 12/21/12, and let me tell you what: the world may end, but there will always be fucking laundry. It's a commitment that never has an end in sight. Just when you think you're finished, there's always another sock or pair of panties or gym t-shirt that pops up in the most peculiar of places. I don't mind commitment. I am, after all, married. This is a give, give, give relationship. The laundry doesn't commit to jack shit. The laundry just chills like a boss while you wait on it like you're its bitch.

2) Sorting sucks. Period. There's at least five combinations: whites, dark, lights, delicate, jeans, towels, ect. And then because I hate having to making multiple trips to different closets and bedrooms, I sort each person's laundry into the former categories. I've tried to be lazy and avoid this but then if I don't sort, I end up with dingy colored t-shirts in my sock drawers, or Kevin has pink underwear, and you'll probably notice Emma wearing something that shrunk.

3) Folding. Sigh. If you were ever a teenager who worked at Hot Topic, Abercrombie and Fitch, or Hollister you know why I hate folding. There's a process to it, and then someone, (like my two year old) walks by after I meticulously folded everything and knocks it onto the floor. Parents: if your child does this in clothing store, smack their little grubby hands and tell them to have some god damn manners and pick up what they dropped. The teenager folding your clothes is getting paid around $7.25 an hour (before taxes) and this is not enough to pick up after bratty, unattended kids.

4) Putting it away. Man...it's like a marathon to do laundry. Except it's a marathon that lasts...UNTIL THE REST OF YOUR LIFE. Anyway, if you can actually get through sorting, washing, drying, folding, ironing, hanging it up...you're a saint! But putting it up is where I run out of gas. I am exhausted and give up. I promise myself it can hang out on the kitchen table or counter for 1/2 hour while I make dinner for my tot or grocery shop. I'm...so....close. And yet I have nothing left to give to the inanimate objects known as laundry. They've sucked my soul dry at this point (think demontors from Harry Potter)

The never ending pile of laundry is a STD you  can get all the medicine for, but it keeps coming back...over and over, taunting you. If I could catch up on laundry, I'd be normal, and could feel as if I'm actually making progress in terms of reassembling myself after the miscarriage.

I've included proof of the atrocious nemesis known as Mount Washmore (and this is after doing SEVERAL loads yesterday or Kevin's closet(s)). If you haven't heard from me in weeks, have no fear - just look under ones of these piles.