My husband, Scott, is obsessed with his laundry. Every – single – day, he asks “Have you seen my laundry basket?” We have nine of them. Some people might think we are wealthy having such luxury for just two people. We are not clothes hounds.
It all started when I washed a load of my husband’s white things and turned them a beautiful shade of rose. One new maroon sock did the damage. Imagine if we had two of them! I had good intentions. I swore I heard something in our vows about laundry. I know for sure, it did not include ironing.
After the rose colored whites’ fiasco, my husband declared, “I’m doing my own laundry. Don’t ever touch it again.” I did a little happy dance. “Will you do mine too?”
I asked, hoping I’d hit the jackpot. “Only if it’s sorted,” he replied. Oh! He’s sly! He knows that will never happen.
We bought two brand new laundry baskets: one for him and one for me. Eventually one was always filled with clean clothes, so we bought more. Slick woman that I am, I figured out that if I co-mingled my clothes into his basket, I’d have less laundry to do. He’d never notice. It was all going well until I put a pair of purple panties in his basket.
You’d have thought I’d stolen the remote control!
“Anne, we agreed to do our own laundry,” he preached and stomped.
“You agreed. I didn’t,” I replied, standing my ground. “I even sorted them in your basket. I’m a good woman.”
“You might be a good woman, but I have purple boxers now.”
I found it humorous that we matched. He did not.
That began the sorting laundry basket phase. He is a super sorter. Our bedroom now looks like a laundromat! We have his whites, her whites, his darks, her darks, his lights, her lights, needs bleach, and a dog who sleeps in my basket of rainbow colored clothes every night. I refuse to sort to that degree. I think it’s a waste of my brain cells.
Last week I caught myself talking to the fabric softener ball. We both agreed that I have more important things to do. It’s bad enough that I have to dash to the dryer and lay the shirts on top of the dryer to avoid ironing. On good days, I even hang them up.
I have mastered his never ending missing sock dilemma. He has two full drawers of single, multi-colored socks. I order them in bulk, but I refuse to match them up. That’s a husband’s job. It’s in our marriage vows.