Ancient Chinese Secret My Ass

I’ve very recently had an epiphany.  I am 44 years old and I still don’t know how to do laundry correctly.  I think if I listed E’s complaints about me (I know you’re shocked, who would ever complain about a model wife/Mom such as myself?!) laundry would top the list.

We purposely live in a small home.  When we moved here from Texas, I was determined to find something more manageable than the brand new five bedroom, three bath, three living room beast of burden we had there.  Our realtor here in Alabama told me I drug her to rural parts of Alabama she had never even seen before.  One house we looked at had its own yard chickens.  Another house had a couple of dead birds in it and I was shocked there wasn’t a hexagram drawn on the floor.    We finally settled on a small house in a suburb of Birmingham.  It has exactly what we need and no more.

When it comes to clothes storage, however, our house is definitely on the “less sucks” side.  Our closet space is very limited so I have to store off season clothing in storage tubs in our basement.  When the weather changes, I go through every tub and rewash everything to work it back into our closet rotations.  It may seem excessive but the clothing has been stored in the basement for a good 6 months and I just feel better knowing everything is clean.

Last fall, however, some lids were left off a couple of the tubs and our cat, unbeknownst to me, made the tubs his home.  White cat hair covered everything.  At the time I was using those little concentrated gel packs of detergent which were apparently made for lumberjacks, industrial paint strippers and occasional North Korean nerve gas.  I threw in five of those little packs per load, just to make sure the clothes were “extra clean”.

E and Landon started breaking out and itching all over their bodies.  I didn’t breakout but I was itching like a country hound dog with fleas in the summer – all over.  The only skin in our family that wasn’t saying “Oh, hell no” to my excessive use of concentrated and possibly banned chemicals belonged to Gracie.  She got nothing, no breakouts, no itching.  I have since concluded that she is an alien sent here to integrate amongst us humans and then lay her eggs when the Mother Ship gives the signal but I’m on this shit now.  I’ve watched the Alien movies and Prometheus.  I can totally handle this now that I know what I’m dealing with.

Ultimately, I had to rewash everything twice and with extra long cycles and rinses.  I had to switch to that super sensitive laundry detergent made from baby angel tears and bunny kisses.  E has a panic attack every time I tell him I have to go to the laundry detergent aisle and feels the need to verify that I am truly still using the tears of baby angels/bunny kisses stuff.  Sometimes I want to throw in the North Korean nerve gas shit just to test for the placebo effect but I don’t think I’m quite ready to hear all the wailing and gnashing of teeth again so soon.

Another one of E’s laundry complaints is “unexplained” stains on his clothes.  He insists they weren’t there when he put them in the hamper.  He’s been accusing me of deliberately planting stains on his clothes for years now.  I let him think that because it distracts him from my real psychological terror/general mind fuckery sabotage scheme I’m using against him but that’s a whole other blog post.

Just yesterday, he woke me from my sound sleep to ask how the hell I could possibly get a “no iron” shirt to be as wrinkled as Shirley MacLaine’s 80 year old ass.  Okay, he didn’t throw Shirley’s 80 year old ass under the bus, I did, but that’s what he meant.

You got me, E.  My life’s mission for the last 23 years has been to thwart the shirt manufacturers by reversing their carefully planned “no iron” qualities, thereby making your shirts wrinkled as hell so you have no choice but to iron them.  I’ve also spent the last 16 years as a stay at home Mom  covertly concocting various impenetrable stains, impregnating your clothes with the stains, all while blaming you.  Mission completed.  I’ll be leaving today.

In the meantime, this is my new motto whenever I screw up as a wife/mom.  Anytime it’s my fault for hives, itching, general life threatening situations and minor to major inconveniences, I’m going to show my family the following video.  Chow’s “BUT DID YOU DIE?!” should put it all into perspective for them.

So I have a lot of free time now.  Who needs some laundry done?

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