Laundry

In our house, the laundry system has gone through a medley of reformations and regurgitations, only to once again become the antithesis of a system in the end. This has gone on from the moment Mr. Handsome and I moved in together in our other lifetime, aka B.C. (Before Children).

Little did I know -- being the rose-coloured glasses, totally-too-optimistic-kind-of-person (some people would call that crazy) -- that once the spawn came along, the laundry situation would get just that much worse.

I actually love doing laundry, although you wouldn't know it by looking at the results. Because, although my intentions are pure, my results are anything but.

Please click on images to make larger. I said CLICK, NOT stroke.

However, by the time I'm finished sorting all the greens and blues from the reds, and the whites from the blacks and purples, I decide it's time to put the chicken carcass on to boil, or maybe it's time to stare at the pile of clothing in my bedroom and shake my head before heading back out and trying to forget about it.

By then, of course, I've also forgotten all about the laundry that's sitting by the washing machine.

And there it sits, for a week, thinking very forlorn and angry thoughts.

What's worse is when I actually manage to put a load in the washing machine, and then forget about it for a week.

Which is why I don't do the family's laundry anymore. Obviously.

So, Mr. Handsome said he could try his hand at it. As it was, he already did his own laundry because apparently he does a better job than anyone else. Clearly, the PhD was worth it.

The problem with Mr. Handsome doing anyone else's laundry is this:

Clearly, a huge problem is a-brewin', because, as everyone knows, when you mix colours in the wash, they all turn grey. Or brown. Or grey brown. In other words, they look like shit.

No matter how many times I have told him, Mr. Handsome scoffs. He scoffs at me, and he scoffs at you. Because, guys, his clothes go into the wash in one big bungload, and they come out looking awesome. WTF, laundry detergent people?! Has this been a game all along?!

Regardless, I refused to allow Mr. Handsome to touch my clothing, simply because on more than one occasion, I've found bleach spots, or strange holes, or things missing. Not acceptable.

Strangely, however, his clothing always seems to come out sparkly clean, as if he had just gotten them from the dry cleaner's.

I call shenanigans on this, guys. There is something amiss here, and I'm going to get to the bottom of it.

And this is also why Em does our laundry now.

Thank god for child slaves.