Somewhere, somehow, there is a woman in a lovely home who has an empty laundry bin. Her shirts are pressed, her linens are fresh, and all of her whities are totally tidy.
I don’t know who she is, but I’ll tell you this: I don’t like her.
I have had a battle with dirty clothes since the beginning of time. Laundry is the bane of my existence, my cross to bear, and try though I may, I never get it done.
Take yesterday, for instance, when I spent the better part of the day sorting garments and pretreating stains. I cursed my family the entire time. Had they no shame? Their socks had been rolled off their feet and left in the shape of a stinky ball, every dark shirt was partnered with a white T-shirt, and not one member of my family had approached me about spot removal.
Worse yet, these people would have me washing clean clothes. Rather than rehanging a shirt after changing their minds, or putting a pair of clean pants back in a drawer, they tossed everything into the dirty clothes. The laundry basket contained shirts on hangers, clothes with price tags, and I’d like to see who was wearing that bulky sweater on a sunny day.
I stuffed the washer, loaded the dryer and hung freshly laundered T-shirts on hangers to air dry. I measured the bleach, calculated fabric softener and spun out a load of linens that would have made my mother green with envy. I worked fast and furious, and by the end of the afternoon I felt as though I’d achieved my life’s dream.
At long last, the laundry was done.
The baskets were empty, the folding table cleared, and both the washer and the dryer were vacant. Patting myself on the back, I stood back to admire the sight. “What a lovely room,” I said to myself as if I were seeing it for the first time.
The newness of a cleaned-up laundry room had me so ecstatic that I envisioned doing something clever with it.
Perhaps decorating it like they do in the magazines. I was conjuring up décor and imagining fresh scents, and even anticipated hanging a cute little sign that said “Drop your drawers here.”
I was in the middle of doing a happy dance when I heard a grunt from behind me. I turned just in time to see a large mound of clothes heading my way. They seemed to have taken on a life of their own, and it wasn’t until they dropped to the floor that I saw who was manning the pile.
“What are you doing?” I asked my son with dismay.
“You said I should clean my room,” he responded with a rolling of the eyes.
“These cannot all be dirty!” I exclaimed with disbelief.
Before he could answer, the back door opened with a bang and my husband walked in looking as if he’d just crawled out from under an oil rig. He was greasy, he was dirty, and he seemed oblivious to the fact that he was filthy.
“Boy, we sure got a lot of work done today!” he said with delight. He pulled off his shirt, tossed me his britches and as he walked away he called over his shoulder, “Good luck getting that stuff clean.”
It was then that I heard a moan coming from the garage and I looked out just in time to see my 15-year-old wrestling his athletic garb out of the family sedan. I’ve scrubbed grass stains out of blue jeans, ink spots out of school shirts and spaghetti out of church clothes, but none of that compares to the complexity and odiousness involved with dealing with the malodorous gym bag.
I knew that the smell alone would be enough to send a mother running into an end zone. Still, Huey dropped the bag at my feet, gave me a hearty and sweaty hug and said, “Wash these for me, will ya?” After he plopped down on the couch, he kicked off his cleats, rolled his socks off his feet, pulled the shirt up off his back and held out the smelly mess as he said, “Here, that ought to make quite a load.”
I have to say that I’d love nothing more than if my family found out where that woman with the clean laundry room, empty clothes bins and tidy whities resides.
I’d love nothing more than to send them over and have them drop their drawers there.
Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” You can reach her at www.loriclinch. com.