*Author's note: I hate doing laundry. Hate it. HATE IT. I avoid it like the plague and put it off for as long as possible.
Now, back to our regularly scheduled blogging:
I ran out of laundry soap at some point last week. I made a mental note of it: "You're out of laundry soap" and then proceeded to go on with my life.
What with all the lasagna drama, laundry was not a priority (which is, technically, no different than any other time but at least it sounds as if I have a valid excuse, yes?) so I managed to avoid the whole issue entirely, remaining very focused on my pity party and making sure that Dan realized how inconvenienced I was and how very, VERY lucky he is that I didn't kill him in his sleep.
Friday, Saturday and Sunday were spent with him walking on egg shells and kissing my ass. Laundry did not come up.
Come Monday, the pile of dirty clothes was growing but was still contained in the hamper. Dan had socks and underwear, I had plenty of panties and sweat pants... there appeared to be no pressing need to remember that I was out of detergent.
Tuesday showed up and with it came the slight over-flow of the hamper. I noticed it long enough to contemplate where the hell it all suddenly came from. I seriously am perplexed by how that happens: Dan wears a uniform to work every day, and the company he works for also provides laundry service so I never even have to TOUCH his uniforms (thank God). I pretty much never go anywhere except downstairs to get the mail and outside to walk the dogs and I manage to wear the same pair of yoga pants for days (DON'T JUDGE ME) before they require cleaning (hey... it's not like I get dirty, okay? I shower daily and rarely step foot on any surface not covered with wall to wall carpet or sit on anything other than my couch) so who, exactly, is dirtying all these clothes? There are two people living here, neither one of whom has any need for excessive wardrobe changes... WHERE THE HELL DOES THE LAUNDRY COME FROM?
I don't get it.
But there it is... multiplying and procreating as we speak.
By Wednesday, the heaping hamper was making a nuisance of itself. Dan made a few snarky remarks along the lines of, "When's the last time you did laundry?" or, my favorite, the one that will get him killed one day: "What the hell do you do all day? It's not like you work..." (Okay, granted: He has a valid point but I'll be goddamned if I admit it. I'M BUSY, OKAY?)
Me: *defending my honor and my slothfullness* "We're out of detergent."
Dan: *giving me his patented "WTF?" look* "Soooooo... why didn't you go buy more?"
Me: *attempting to come up with a reason to be pissed off and wounded by his outrageous suggestion but failing miserably*
Meanwhile, I was rapidly running out of clothes, towels, and the throws I keep on the couch so that my entire house doesn't reek of dog. (For two little dogs who spend practically no time outside, do absolutely nothing to get dirty and get groomed on a regular basis, they sure manage to work up some stink.) The state of the laundry was reaching crisis proportions. Then Dan announced, as he was getting ready for work: "I'm out of socks. Are there any in the dryer?"
Of COURSE there weren't any in the dryer. Because I ran out of laundry detergent. Remember? I just told you that!!!
(I rock at uncalled-for self-righteous indignation.)
It was time to suck it up and take care of business.
Long story short, today I have been doing laundry. All. Day.
How is it that one week of not doing laundry equals seven loads of clothes I don't remember wearing, towels I don't remember using, and 200 mismatched socks at the bottom of the hamper that I know for a fact have not been on my feet in the past seven days? It's got to be a conspiracy, right?
Probably those fucking geese.