Monday, August 9, 2010

There are no dresses in baseball

{photo from here}

Every household has a system. This, I believe, is the key to true happiness and un-divorcedness. That's right, I'm making up words. Deal with it. Without a system, I have decided, things go down the crapper pretty darn quickly.

So, what's our system, you ponder anxiously? It's simple, really. He cooks, I do the dishes. His money is our money and my money is our money. We're good at sharing. But, the key to true happiness and success doesn't lie here. Oh, no. Not even close. The key is the laundry system. It's the only way things are going to work. The system at our house is the old favorite, every man/woman for him/her self. It's a free for all. It's a jungle in there. What's there? There is the laundry room, and it's an insane place.

You see, I'm pretty high maintenance when it comes to clothing. I need lots of clothing, plenty of options and I need things to be washed, dried, folded and fluffed in a very specific manner. I might think about seriously hurting you if you put my bras in the dryer or DARE to wash my indigo-dyed skinny jeans with un-similar colors. It happened once and my husband still, to this day, has not heard the end of it. Mostly because I have a bunch of formerly white clothing that has a blue-ish tint and also because he made it to the State Fair for his laundry skills as a child. That's not a joke, either. It's real. Strange, yes, but totally real.

Ever since the Jeans Mixed With Whites Situation, we have been on our own when it comes to laundry needs. I can't complain that my favorite shirt isn't clean, because it's my own fault that my favorite shirt isn't clean. Because I'm the one who didn't wash it because I probably was too busy watching Jersey Shore and lamenting over how everyone is just SO mean to Angelina to be bothered with babysitting the washing machine. Also, I have no one to shake my finger at when the washing machine is so overloaded with clothing that it decides to--literally--eat one of my bras. It wasn't pretty, and it smelled awful. My fault.

So, when packing for our recent weekend getaway to Chicago, my husband spied my clothing choices and pondered what I was thinking. He wondered because I was packing a dress to wear to yesterday's Cubs v. Reds game. A red dress, mind you, but a dress. When he caught on to my scheme, the following happened:

Him: "What's with the dress?"
Me: "I'm going to wear it to the game."
H: "No wife of mine is wearing a DRESS to a BASEBALL GAME."

In the interest of saving himself the public humiliation of being married to woman who wears dresses to take in America's Favorite Pastime, he did my laundry. Victory is mine.


Emily H said...

Brilliant! That's how I got Stephen to do the cooking. He decided that dry and burnt were not acceptable flavors/seasonings so now he just does it himself!

Dearheart Designs said...

Hi! I'm following from the TTA! I look forward to reading!


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