I did something remarkable this weekend.
I caught up on my laundry.
Perhaps were expecting, you know, "I mated with a horse" or at least "I jumped from something tall," but for me, catching up on the laundry is akin to those great feats. And I KNOW I don't have kids and therefore do not know from real laundry. Yet somehow I cannot keep up.
Oftentimes you'll find my desperate unlaundered self at work in the dress I wore to homecoming in 1982, or the stingray costume I wore for Halloween the year Marvin and I were Steve Irwin and a stingray.
Also, sometimes I have to just shake off when I emerge from the shower, like a dog.
Are you gleaning that laundry is not something I keep up on?
(No, really, she can act so hoity-toity sometimes. Like, let's say I call her because I just found out I need a filling. She'll say, "I don't know why you get cavities, honey. I brush four times a day and I floss at the top of every hour." These statements only help to make you feel worse, and also to wonder why she is wearing her hair in those ringlets.)
"I don't understand why you can't keep up with the laundry, honey," my mother said. "All my life I have done laundry on Friday, and I finish on Saturday. I am never without something to wear."
I mean, it makes you want to sneak into her closet and replace everything with one giant barrel with suspenders, doesn't it?
At any rate, I DID start Friday, and I kept at it until Sunday night, and three giant tubs of laundry got done. And you know what? I do not need to buy as many clothes as I thought. Also…
If you hear about me buying another pink shirt, could you roll over me with my mother's barrel?
(Crap. I forgot to worm in that "Don't forget to vote for me for Funniest Blogger" line. Hey! Don't forget to vote! You can vote every day!) ("I don't understand how you'd forget to vote, honey. I vote every day in my clean clothes.")