Oh yeah people, I’m going there. Laundry is the bane of my existence. Gathering it, sorting it, washing it, drying it, folding it, putting it away...Just no.
|Fuck. That. Shit.|
Let’s begin at the beginning, shall we?
I live in a fairly small house by American standards, 1,500 square feet (Fun fact: average house size in the US is approximately 2,500 square feet as of 2010). How many places could dirty laundry hide? Answer: ALL OF THE PLACES.
|There are probably 2-3 loads of laundry hidden in this photo of my living room.|
There are socks in the living room, a bra in my craft room, more socks and a t-shirt in the office, a lone pair of underpants in the hall, towels in the bathrooms, and a veritable carpet of discarded clothing on David’s side of the bed. It is like hide and seek to get all of it together, except you you always get stuck as the seeker and what is hiding is raunchy underpants that you would really rather not find.
|Come out, come out wherever you are...|
I unearth the mountain of discarded clothing and toss it down the stairs for sorting. Lights, darks, towels, and sheets right? WRONG BITCH.
Bras are delicates because if you ever want to be able to wear that expensive titty-holster again, you better not even THINK about sorting it into anything other than cold water wash load because the straps will twist up and the cups will deform and there will be no way your boobs will ever fit comfortably in it again.
|I was a 34B. Now I am a 34-Go-Fuck-Yourself.|
David works in a factory where he gets covered in fiber dust, regular dust, dirt, and other unidentifiable substances that all smell weird. Those pants are not getting washed with the regular clothes (because ew), so now we have a jeans load. And then the guinea pigs have their cage-liners and pee pads that need their own separate load, because no one wants their clothing marinated in guinea urine.
|But my scent is adorably alluring and it brings all the boys to the yard...oh, my bad.|
That's cats. It brings all the CATS to the yard.
The washing itself isn’t that bad. Throw it in with the requisite powders/liquids, select a cycle, and hit start. What I hate about it is being told someone needs something when someone is already out of said items and needs them right then in order to not go to work half naked the next day.
Also, if you forget that you have a load in the washer, you will be greeted with that lovely sour, slightly mildewy scent that pervades every piece of clothing in the forgotten load and have to wash it again. So you can forget it all over again. And possibly again...
Let’s get one thing straight right away: the timer on the dryer is a fucking liar. It says one hour, you had best budget two, especially for jeans or sheets.
|DING! I'm not even remotely done! I just want attention!|
Everything gets tangled together. The outside of the bundle is dry leading you to a false sense of security, but then SURPRISE MOTHERFUCKER! The inside is totally fucking soaked! YAY! Now you get to untangle that bastard and try again!
This is my least favorite part, which is usually why it never gets done and we are digging through a mountain of clean clothes to find things. Do I love finding my closet full of nicely folded clothes? Hell yes! Do I like to be the one to actually nicely fold them? No. No, I do not.
My biggest hates? Socks and fitted sheets.
I have a basket half full of socks that have no mates. How is that even fucking possible? Like snowflakes, apparently no two socks are alike. Especially white sports socks. Some have a red line, some have grey toes and heels, some have a gold toe, some have a black line, some have no lines at all. And none of them have a mate once they leave their package. EVER.
|I am convinced that the lint in my dryer trap is actually the cremated remains|
of all the mates to my mate-less socks.
And fitted sheets? I have watched Momet (my mother) fold them to perfection a million times. I have seen tutorial videos on YouTube. I have read instructions that have photos. Mine always turn into something I like to call a “wad” which I promptly hide at the top of the closet.
|Step 1: Attempt to fold. Step 2: Fuck it, wad that shit up.|
Step 3: Throw into closet before anyone can see your shame.
Once everything is done and folded, you have to find a place for it.
Living in New England, the unpredictable weather forces you to have a revolving door system of clothing. I have clothes for every season and they are constantly being rotated in or out. And sometimes “seasons” overlap, so you have twice as many clothes as there is space to put them.
|Thanks for that week of 80 degree weather, followed by a gigantic|
snowstorm in October Mother Nature! Fucking bipolar bitch...What season is is again?
So there you have it. Laundry is a thankless and endless task. And it hates you.
|Come closer. We feed on the souls of the weak. And socks.|