When I started this humble blog a little over a year ago, one of my first posts was titled, “The Great Laundry Crisis of 2008.” It was about how laundry had taken over my life. How it sat in piles around my tiny apartment. How it taunted me and shamed me.
I believe my exact words were that it was an act of God.
A lot has changed in the past year. I got my masters. I bought a house. I had a baby. I picked mushrooms. I broke up with Kenny Chesney. I defeated a family of squawking birds. I got my haircut. I mean, things have been busy. I’ve gone through more changes than Madonna.
But one thing has remained consistent. One thing has stayed true. Through thick and thin, rich and poor, for better or worse, in good times and in bad.
My laundry situation is still the same.
I still walk around my house amazed at the onslaught of clothing piled in massive mountains here, there, and everywhere in between. I will never understand it.
There are two and a half people in my house. We each wear one outfit a day. Where do all the clothes come from? Why is it that at the end of the week, it looks like Old Navy has projectile vomited all over my house? Its like someone breaks into my house every day, wears all my clothes, and then throws them all over the place. I will never understand it.
“Moooooom!” yelled Beanie. “Help me, Mom!”
“Beanie? Where are you?” I say.
“Help! Mom! This pile of clothes ate me!”
“Which pile, Beanie?” I say. “There are so many of them!”
“This one over here! Right here! I’m right here!” yelled Beanie.
“Oh!” I say. “There you are, Beanie!”
“It just ain’t right, Mom. It just ain’t right,” says Beanie.
“I know, Beanie,” I sigh. “It just ain’t right.”