I am going to complain about laundry.
I will do this for approximately three minutes of your time.
I HATE LAUNDRY.
I hate it like My Man hates peas. I hate it like Ouro Branco hates getting his ears cleaned. I hate it like Little Prince hates tying his shoes. I hate it like Mr. Squishy hates a diaper change.
I HATE IT.
It's always there. I can wash every single dirty item in the house on a given day (this is strictly theoretical - it has never happened) and that very night, every hamper will have a dirty article of clothing in it. I have nothing to show for it. It is always there, waiting to be done.
That Girl ... That Girl ... wash us ... we're dirty ....
The clothes SPEAK to me. In really low, gurgly voices that sound like they're coming from beneath a sewer.
('Cept for socks. They're kind of high pitched.)
Speaking of socks, what's up with them, anyway? I have approximately 879 single socks without mates. LP currently has two pairs to his name that actually match. And don't get me started on trying to sort Da Boyz' socks. Did you know they sell socks in bags of 9-36 months, and 3-5 years? THAT WOULD MEAN MY THREE CHILDREN ALL WEAR THE SAME SIZE. I'm buggered every time I have to fold those squeaky voiced suckers.
And laundry is not a quickie little chore. It's not a fast swipe of Clorox bleach wipes or a two-minute sweep job. IT TAKES ALL FREAKING DAY. Sort. Pretreat. Load. Start. Wait. Switch. Pretreat. Load. Start. Wait. Take out. Switch. Pretreat. Load. Start. Fold. Wait.
And the folding - the FOLDING! And the putting away - the PUTTING AWAY! It truly takes me a week to get everything done, and by then I have to start all over again.
Every woman has their thang, and laundry is obviously not mine.
(My mother and brother love doing laundry. I'm thinking about disowning them.)
Now floors, I can get into floors. I like sweeping. I like mopping. I like not crunching when I walk. I like making beds. I like doing the dishes. I even like dusting and getting fingerprints off the walls.
But laundry? PLUCK THE EYELASHES STRAIGHT FROM MY SENSITIVE UPPER LIDS.
A friend and I were discussing the other day that this is when polygamy starts sounding nice. You could interview your husband's potential wives:
"Oh, you're into windows? Sorry. We already have a window washer."
I'm looking for someone who delights in laundry. Who relishes in beautifully creased clothing. Who yearns to match endless pairs of pipsqueaks.
I will wash your floor every day in return.
(But you're not getting My Man.)