Mount Washmore

I do not like laundry. Perhaps it's the self-diagnosed-ADD in me. It's not just the loading of the washer, I can do that. But then you have to stick with it enough to actually move it to the dryer. And what's my reward for remembering to flip it (other than keeping my clothes from smelling moldy)??? Ah yes, I then get to fold it all, the most time-consuming of the whole process. Then comes the sorting and putting away and by then I need a cocktail. As if that wasn't enough, I get to repeat this task countless numbers of time throughout the week. The mountain of laundry at my house is like a dinner-size salad at Cheesecake Factory, the more work I do on it, the bigger it seems to get. My mother always called it Mount Washmore and she's right.

I complain about it and complain about it and wish someone else would do it for me. But who??? Who has the skills??? We'll take the first and most obvious of choices...my husband. He'll do laundry (aka "climb the mountain") every once in a while when it has gotten truly out of hand. But he's terrible at it. When he folds laundry he needs constant supervision because he can't multitask to fold and sort at the same time. Everybody's clean clothes get put in the same basket. What good does that do me? As anyone with self-diagnosed OCD like me can tell you that the only way to do it is to sort WHILE you fold. You gotta have multiple baskets going with everyone either getting their own basket of clean clothes (or at the very least, separate pile within the basket) to make it easier to put the god-forsaken stuff away in the appropriate drawers in the appropriate rooms.

And let's not forget to give a special shout-out to Mark's two signature moves, the "put-something-dark-in-with-Kristen's-whites" move and my own personal favorite, the "throw-everything-in-the-dryer" move. In his hands, my "skinny jeans" become my "when-I-lose-ten-pounds jeans" and my sweaters become Shelby's. I swear to you, it's calculated. He's no-doubt thinking to himself that if he can find a way to screw it up, he'll be begged NOT to do it. And I tip my hat to him, because it totally works.

Then there is my mother. God love her, she does laundry for me when she visits. And she sorts AND puts away. Which would be fantastic if I didn't have two daughters 11 months apart. To be honest, I have no idea what method my mother uses to decide whose stuff goes where but it's riddled with flaws. It takes me weeks to get the girls' clothes back in the correct spot, usually after I catch Shelby in a few pairs of high-waters and Reagan swimming in a few shirts.

Some may argue that I bring the problem on myself by being so awesome at laundry that I preclude help. Or at the very least, that because I'm the only one who really knows whose is whose, then I am the only person who CAN do it. Or the clinical response, that because I have delegation issues and am a control-freak, I deserve to do it. But that doesn't change the way I feel about it.

I'd write more but the dryer buzzer beckons...