So, I hate laundry. I don’t wanna do it anymore.
It never ends, and that’s depressing. I mean, I like the dumping in the washer part just fine, and the soap part, but then I’m way over it and I just want to sit around and bemoan Lady Mary and Matthew for a while.
Maybe Pinterest something.
But not the folding. Not the putting away. Ugh.
I hate laundry.
I don’t wanna sort underpants. And it’s just mine and the Hubster because I wisely taught my offspring to do their own dang washing at the tender ages of eight.
This was especially amusing for the short one who had to pull over a chair to the washer and was nearly consumed in full trying to reach the last sock.
So, if you have Littles and are doing the whole household’s laundry, I have the solution!
Join a nudist colony.
I think we should join a nudist colony.
It seems the only logical thing to do, and also very green, which is very hipster of me considering I don’t even recycle. But I care deeply about the planet, goshdarnit! *
* the only reason I don’t recycle is because it isn’t offered in my location anymore, except for milk jugs and newspapers, neither of which we use. Don’t come for me.
But, the thing is, I don’t want to join a Fit nudist colony, do you? It’d have to be Frumpy nudist colony.
Maybe a nudist colony/fat camp? Do they have those? If not, they should.
We could start one. It’d be motivating for the members, although it’d backfire on me. They’d all be out doing deep knee bends and squats and I’d be eating cheese. Pretty soon, it’d be a Fat Camp for one and that’s hardly a camp, people.
On the other hand I don’t know what Gloria, my muffin top, would do if I gave her room to breathe, and frankly, the idea is a little terrifying. I can keep her under control with some flat tab Yoga pants, or some jeans in a size that some mature adults would call, too small, or some high waist-ed granny panties.
If I gave her room to, you know, maneuver, she might spread or something, like Jabba the Hut. She could ooze into things, like small children and puppies, and also, she hasn’t quite forgiven me for the Waxing Incident of Which We Do Not Speak (story to follow), and she may get revenge yet.
Also, this would be a family affair and sons especially, should not be encouraged to flaunt their birthday suits. Mine already speaks of body parts with disturbing nonchalance, usually at the most inopportune times.
Like when conversing with pastors (“did you know weenies can grow?!”) or swinging at the park (while shouting, “underdogs make my weenie tickle!”).
An alternative laundry solution.
My other idea, if the whole nudist colony doesn’t pan out (or if they reject our application for membership), is disposable clothing.
I came up with this idea when I had babies and they were constantly pooping out their onesies and making yellow stains all over creation. Pop-up onesies that come in a tissue box!
How do I get on Shark Tank?
Another application? Really? More paperwork? Forget it.
Or I could just finish the laundry and threaten to cut the next person who casually flips their socks into my empty hamper.
I am always harping on everyone about how you never need to wash jeans. Okay, not NEVER never, but MOSTLY never. I can go weeks without washing my jeans, but I confess it’s not just because I fret about the planet, it’s because I hate that dance you have to do to get back inside them after washing.
You know the one:
shimmy, shimmy, shake, pour, groan, kick, stretch, gasp, cry, ooze, shimmy, nap, suffocate, whimper, pep talk Gloria.
A laundry-minimizing game.
We like to play a really fun game at my house. It involves me picking my Hubster’s jeans out of the hamper and folding them and putting them into his dresser, while muttering under my breath, “you wore these for one day and didn’t even DO anything in them, you bloody sod.”
Of course, he doesn’t know we’re playing.
I think this is why homeschool moms wear denim jumpers. No, not because they’re fashion challenged, but because they don’t have the time for such nonsense; they’re too busy homeschooling. Also, they’re too busy writing letters to the Homeschool Association about rejecting my membership. I think they feel threatened by Gloria or something.
The waxing incident of 2002 of which we do not speak.
So my blogging window is limited because we’re totally stealing internet access from our neighbor’s because the router we bought was bad.
We only get a sliver of a half of a fraction of a percentage of a bar and only if I place myself precariously on the side of my craigslist mattress which folds in the middle like a cheese sandwich, and aim the computer towards the window.
I don’t think our neighbors would mind because they are listening to country music as they work in their yard and anyone who listens to country music are good people. I know this.
Anyway, I have to blog fast before the sliver of a half of a fraction of a percentage of a bar becomes nil and void and poof! vanishes into a world wide web graveyard from which no one ever returns.
Dead zones follow me. It’s weird. I’m like those people who can’t wear watches because they’re magnetized or some such thing.
Luckily, good ol’ WordPress saves what I’m writing every few minutes. They’re good people too. Except when it comes to allowing people to leave comments and then they twirl their handlebar mustaches and tie those comments to the railroad tracks where I never get to see them again.
I’ve been a little obsessed with hair lately. Not the stuff on my head, which is just irritating beyond belief and going gray at the speed of light, but the other stuff. I bought a new razor, spurring my budget conscience obsessed husband to say sweetly,
Hey, honey, could you quit spending like a drunken sailor?
I almost felt guilty for my shiny new green razor all perched pretty like on my shower wall, but only almost. It had been almost six months since I had a new one and I might as well have been shaving with construction paper for three months of that time.
May I remind you that I am a pale-ish white person with nearly black hair?
I am not one of these lucky duck blonde girls who only have to shave bi-annually: we’re talking daily in the summer and even then I sport a five o’clock shadow on my ankles by dinner time.
I know, I know. This is really more than you want to know about me. Be quiet. I’m sharing my soul here.
So I refused to feel guilty about my splurge and I even didn’t care about the cut on my shin bone that almost made me bleed to death. It was the sign of a freakin’ good razor!
But sadly, the whole purchase came back to bite me in the tushie.
Late last night a huge, we’re talking ginormous, crash rocked through our sleeping house. I tend to suffer from what is called Emergency Situation Tourette’s Syndrome which basically means I cannot be held responsible for what I say when confronted with ginormous crashes in the middle of the night, loss of blood, scary movies, or scary movie previews.
I also suffer from Pregnancy Tourette’s, which means I can’t be held responsible for what I say when confronted with smells, bad drivers, empty cupboards, or toilet paper commercials. But I don’t have that malady currently, so no worries.
Great. Now I want a baby.
But back to hair. The crash from my bathroom made me jump to the logical conclusion that mutant alien zombies were coming through the window. But it was only the new razor falling off the shower wall where it was SUPPOSED to be hanging nicely from its included-at-no-charge shower wall hangy thing. I still suspect mutant alien zombies.
Mutant alien zombies with suspiciously smooth legs to boot…
Anyway, back to my hair stories. Confession time: my belly button gets a little fuzzy when gestating humans.
That rustling sound you just heard was the sound of all males leaving their computers in disgust.
Okay, now that it’s all women here, let’s dish!
I grow a tummy like a cute little fuzzy peach. Or a kiwi.
So, I get this brilliant idea while eight months pregnant to use this hot wax thing I’ve had in my bathroom cupboard for like, ages. This seems super dooper logical to someone whose braincells have recently leaked out their ears and onto the floor.
What? Your brain cells don’t do that when pregnant? Huh. Interesting.
Well, anyway, I smear the hot wax all over my sasquatch belly and poor little Gianni, who is swimming around inside, all fishy like and bouncy and practicing his own stunts. I wait until it hardens.
If you’ve never waxed, it’s a painful procedure, but heck, at least it’s fast, right? All I had ever done at this point was my eyebrows, and that’s like, a centipede worth of skin you’re messing with, so who cares. You can do it! Grit your teeth and it’s over in two seconds!
Well, not so much with a giant belly that holds an eight pound sumo wrestler and all the baggage and furniture and supplies said wrestlers carries. We’re talking major real estate.
Needless to say, Pregnancy Tourettes reared its ugly head.
I did finally get all that wax off, but it was not without tears and begging for my life to be spared to the Waxing Gods.
If ever I become with child again, I will embrace my kiwi belly, for it is beautiful and round and furry like a kitten. And who doesn’t love kittens? Ummm, no one. Everyone loves kittens.
Now that I think about it, no small wonder poor Gianni was bald.
These are the sorts of things I think about when I get worked up about how much I hate laundry. So, enough.
I’m joining a nudist colony until someone invents that disposable clothing tissue box.
And gives me royalties for the idea.