I Give Up... The Laundry's Taking Over
I'm confessing something huge here, so bear with me while I hide myself in shame and mumble a big, lumpy secret: I hate laundry. That isn't the secret though. It's the fact that in my walk in closet there is a mound of dirty laundry that is over-flowing the hampers and is now sitting squarely in the middle, just outside the swing of the door. Just enough room to get in and out, but not knock over the pile.
What? You haven't clicked away from this blog yet? What's wrong with you? Seriously. I live in filth and I spent my weekend twittering away at Target (to buy clean underwear and shirts of course!) and playing with my kids. Something I wasn't able to do last weekend since work took over. But don't pity me, really. The house? A pig stye. And here I am blogging instead of doing something about it. Friday, I finagled an entire hour to go grocery shopping. Stocking the pantry and refrigerator was enough responsibility as I could muster, beyond feeding, bathing, and nursing children (and husband. Well, except the nursing part. Bathing is also debatable).
I'm not asking for pity. Nope. It's the way I really live. And quite honestly, even with the stress level beyond normal around here (hell, my mom and I are in a bit of a tiff. And that hasn't happened since I moved out over 12 years ago), it isn't abnormal for a mountain of laundry to be hiding in the closet. Come visit, snoop. You'll find out the real truth. Or, of course, read my blog. It's not something I can keep hidden any longer. Especially when my son is begging me to do a load of laundry so he has pants to wear tomorrow.
Really, the washing and drying part is easy--it's just tossing it into machines right? It's the damn folding and putting away that gets my girt. I am sick of matching socks, tossing underwear in drawers, and (gasp!) hanging items that inevitably get tossed on the floor the next event I need to find something decent to wear for (which this moment, happens to be work tomorrow). And so, tonight, I'm tossing too-tight jeans aside, button-less shirts onto the floor, and trying to find ONE DAMN thing that is clean and fits appropriately so that I can at least look professional at work tomorrow.
I can't say I'll look anything like "put together" but at least I won't be naked. OR smelling something awful. Because, my husband, bless his heart, just started a load of laundry. Laundry, that for once, I won't be folding.
What? You haven't clicked away from this blog yet? What's wrong with you? Seriously. I live in filth and I spent my weekend twittering away at Target (to buy clean underwear and shirts of course!) and playing with my kids. Something I wasn't able to do last weekend since work took over. But don't pity me, really. The house? A pig stye. And here I am blogging instead of doing something about it. Friday, I finagled an entire hour to go grocery shopping. Stocking the pantry and refrigerator was enough responsibility as I could muster, beyond feeding, bathing, and nursing children (and husband. Well, except the nursing part. Bathing is also debatable).
I'm not asking for pity. Nope. It's the way I really live. And quite honestly, even with the stress level beyond normal around here (hell, my mom and I are in a bit of a tiff. And that hasn't happened since I moved out over 12 years ago), it isn't abnormal for a mountain of laundry to be hiding in the closet. Come visit, snoop. You'll find out the real truth. Or, of course, read my blog. It's not something I can keep hidden any longer. Especially when my son is begging me to do a load of laundry so he has pants to wear tomorrow.
Really, the washing and drying part is easy--it's just tossing it into machines right? It's the damn folding and putting away that gets my girt. I am sick of matching socks, tossing underwear in drawers, and (gasp!) hanging items that inevitably get tossed on the floor the next event I need to find something decent to wear for (which this moment, happens to be work tomorrow). And so, tonight, I'm tossing too-tight jeans aside, button-less shirts onto the floor, and trying to find ONE DAMN thing that is clean and fits appropriately so that I can at least look professional at work tomorrow.
I can't say I'll look anything like "put together" but at least I won't be naked. OR smelling something awful. Because, my husband, bless his heart, just started a load of laundry. Laundry, that for once, I won't be folding.
An Early Valentine's Message to The Husband
My husband complains when I wear his sweatshirts. I (in)conveniently dirty them when he wants to wear them. Or I roll up the sleeves and leave them that way until they get laundered . Baby spit-up lines the shoulders while in the hamper. Or... well any excuse that makes it seem like he's upset I wear his hoodies.
As much as he says he's upset (even stating, "We're gonna get you your own black hoodie!"), I think he likes that I wear them. Sure, I wear them because they are comfortable, non-binding, and absolutely the perfect color to match my yoga pants. But, really, I wear them because they smell like him. His cologne. After shave. Man scent. Whatever. It just feels nice--like a constant hug all day long. As Cheese-lined as that last statement came across, I still want to say it. Corny? Sure. But it is completely honest.
And the other reason I wear them? Because they are clean.
Oh sure, point fingers, snicker and laugh at me. Go ahead. But you know damn well you'd do the same thing.
I am the laundromat around here. Picking up clothes at the end of the bed, sorting, collecting, washing and drying. Yep, mostly me. 90% of the time. I'm trying not to complain about that--and really I'm not--as I am lucky enough to work from home most of the time. That puts child caring, laundry, dinner-making, and likely clean up onto my lap most of the time. With all that, well, who can blame me for just grabbing the clean clothes? It's proven (unscientifically of course) clean, comfortable clothes are the best to work in. You know, from the desk in my bedroom while the baby sleeps.
Some days I get bitter about the clothes that tend to wander into the living room or on the backs of the dining room chairs. Or the ones that tend to always be at the foot of the bed instead of in the hamper(s). But, all in all, I know it is the role I play in the house. I work, I care, I do laundry (among other things). My husband, he works, he cares, he snowblows, he mows the lawn, he does car care... and well many other things too. So? We're even. Sorta. As long as I can wear his hoodies.
So, the truth is now known. I wear my husbands sweatshirts and hoodies because I love him AND because they are clean. In that order. Next time he makes the "buy your own damn hoodie" comment, maybe I can pull up this post and show him--that yes, I wear the shirt mostly because I needed a hug that day.
As much as he says he's upset (even stating, "We're gonna get you your own black hoodie!"), I think he likes that I wear them. Sure, I wear them because they are comfortable, non-binding, and absolutely the perfect color to match my yoga pants. But, really, I wear them because they smell like him. His cologne. After shave. Man scent. Whatever. It just feels nice--like a constant hug all day long. As Cheese-lined as that last statement came across, I still want to say it. Corny? Sure. But it is completely honest.
And the other reason I wear them? Because they are clean.
Oh sure, point fingers, snicker and laugh at me. Go ahead. But you know damn well you'd do the same thing.
I am the laundromat around here. Picking up clothes at the end of the bed, sorting, collecting, washing and drying. Yep, mostly me. 90% of the time. I'm trying not to complain about that--and really I'm not--as I am lucky enough to work from home most of the time. That puts child caring, laundry, dinner-making, and likely clean up onto my lap most of the time. With all that, well, who can blame me for just grabbing the clean clothes? It's proven (unscientifically of course) clean, comfortable clothes are the best to work in. You know, from the desk in my bedroom while the baby sleeps.
Some days I get bitter about the clothes that tend to wander into the living room or on the backs of the dining room chairs. Or the ones that tend to always be at the foot of the bed instead of in the hamper(s). But, all in all, I know it is the role I play in the house. I work, I care, I do laundry (among other things). My husband, he works, he cares, he snowblows, he mows the lawn, he does car care... and well many other things too. So? We're even. Sorta. As long as I can wear his hoodies.
So, the truth is now known. I wear my husbands sweatshirts and hoodies because I love him AND because they are clean. In that order. Next time he makes the "buy your own damn hoodie" comment, maybe I can pull up this post and show him--that yes, I wear the shirt mostly because I needed a hug that day.
The only important thing I remember from the NFL draft
Brady Quinn was finally chosen at pick 22 for the Cleveland Browns (apparently where he most belonged).
Really. I was a good wife. Sitting through ten picks and then joining in the discussion to understand why it was a big deal for this kid not to get picked up. And then, yes, he finally was picked, for a salary that is highly unlikely I will ever reach in my entire career.
Off to not care about football until Superbowl 2008.
Really. I was a good wife. Sitting through ten picks and then joining in the discussion to understand why it was a big deal for this kid not to get picked up. And then, yes, he finally was picked, for a salary that is highly unlikely I will ever reach in my entire career.
Off to not care about football until Superbowl 2008.
