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Examiner
  • Annie Dear: Clothes in, clothes out; the laundry cycle goes on

  • I think it would be safe to say that doing the laundry is not my favorite chore around the house. Come to think of it, I doubt I could come up with a favorite at all. I suppose cooking would come close, but I don’t consider it a chore most of the time, so it can’t really qualify, now can it?

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  • I think it would be safe to say that doing the laundry is not my favorite chore around the house. Come to think of it, I doubt I could come up with a favorite at all. I suppose cooking would come close, but I don’t consider it a chore most of the time, so it can’t really qualify, now can it?
    Windows? No, I only do windows if I fear complete and utter embarrassment at the hands of visitors. Cleaning? No, ’fraid not. My attitude is that God did not put me on this earth to clean houses – a horribly snobbish attitude I will confess. Gardening? Oh heaven’s no. I can even kill crabgrass. Lawn mowing? No – see house cleaning coupled with gardening and you have my answer.
    So laundry, by virtue of the list, is top on my “OK, I suppose I’ll do it” chore.
    I used to quite like ironing. I would set myself up in front of the TV with a good movie playing, and I’d quite mindlessly plow my way through the laundry basket, feeling hideously self satisfied at my accomplishment. But it seems my arrival through the immigration portals of the USA sucked that semi-pleasure away from me, and I cannot even imagine the last time I got the iron out. Come to think of it, I can’t exactly say where the iron is. No, if it needs ironing, I don’t own it, which, naturally, brings me to the subject of laundry.
    Sir and I really are quite a team – we’re the Misty-May Treanor and Kerri Walsh of the laundry room. He serves, I return – it’s quite balletic and thank God we don’t have to wear itty bitty bikinis to do it.
    Truth be told, he puts one load on – the whites – and then pretty much forgets about it. Oh, he’s going to howl at this. Anyhow, I then throw that lot in the dryer, add another load to the wash and so it goes.
    I am pretty disciplined in getting the clothes out of the dryer as soon as it stops – because, you got it – I hate ironing.
    I’ve found an exceptional brand of shirts for me, that if you’re diligent and quick enough, a quick flap out of the dryer and a rapid insertion of a hanger prevents wrinkles from even thinking about joining the party. If the garment is not visible from the outside, I frankly don’t care if it ends up looking like a 110-year old woman – no one will see it anyway.
    Sir obviously learned the military method of ironing from his days in Vietnam. Probably not a lot of opportunity to prissily iron your smalls in the jungle, he flattens the item on the bed, efficiently smoothing his hands across it, folds it – with more precise smoothing – and…. puts it away? Well, no. He stacks it on top of the dresser, but hey, they’re his clothes, who am I to quibble?
    Page 2 of 2 - I really would love to have clean sheets every day. I actually groan when I get into a freshly made bed and wriggle my toes with pleasure. But having clean sheets every day would not only entail having to make the bed with nurse-like precision, but it would also involve more laundry and sheet folding. I know how to fold a fitted sheet, but frankly, I don’t want to.
    Sir takes a fresh towel every day, which as I think I’ve mentioned before, totally baffles me. It’s not as if our towels are of hand-combed cashmere or tufted silk. They’re not as soft as a baby’s bottom, nor as fluffy as a freshly poofed poodle, so a fresh towel is, as far as I’m concerned, nothing to write home about.
    So it was last weekend we were in our laundry-mode. Sir threw the whites in the machine, along with the white towels – he really is quite well trained that way – and, you got it, promptly forgot about the entire exercise, giving way to his ADD-induced toenail cutting, ear hair trimming, newspaper reading activities.
    I threw them in the dryer and thence proceeded to the darks and the towels.
    Later that night, Sir went to his hand ironing phase, and gave a little grunt of despair at his gray trousers in which he’d played golf. I’d totally forgotten about it, but he arrived back from golf mud-spattered, and then never thought another thing.
    Well, the mud hadn’t moved. Come to think of it, it’s been so dry, how could there be mud in the first place?
    But it wasn’t mud, was it? It was some particularly gripping seed, as I discovered when Sir admitted he and his fellow hacker had stalked off into the bushes to retrieve an errant – and thus far undiscovered – golf ball.
    So Sir and I spent a delightful 10 minutes picking the seeds off the trousers – and the socks – and the under-dungers – and the white towels.
    When I come back in my next life, I’m going to be filthy rich; I’m going to have a maid and a gardener and a window washer – and some factotum to shake Sir off at the front door when he comes home from golf.
    I’m telling you, if I wake up with a seed attached to my bottom, there will be words.
    Annie Dear lives in the Lakewood area of Lee's Summit. Email anniedearkc@hotmail.com.
     
     

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