Laundry leads to alcoholism

It's Day 5 of my Operation Laundry campaign and I need a drink already.  You may think I exaggerate a bit.  You know, a little something to justify the need to be a "stay-at-home mom".  A little bit of "if I went to work outside the home, the universe would implode and then who would supply you with clean underwear, hmm?".  But about six days ago, a small mountain of clean laundry lay in the middle of our TV room, on the floor, staring at me.  Yes, it stared.  In fact, it was one sock short of coming to life and opening its wrinkled, multi-coloured jaws to gobble me up.  I stared back.  Back in everyone's closets, laundry  baskets overflowed with roughly two weeks of dirty laundry, spilling over onto the floor.  My Laundry Monster had back-up.  Little henchmen lurking in the dark recesses of our closets.  But my Laundry Monster was in no rush to move.  It was biding its time, waiting for me to crack.  That day came six days ago. 

Now I'll come clean in saying that the Laundry Monster is my own bastard child.  I conceived it.  I provided the nourishment it needed for its growth and development.  I brought it into the world, painfully after many days of labour.  And now in a bid to defend itself, clinging to its own instinct to survive, it means to defeat me.  I mean to whup its butt.  I woke up that morning with only one thing on my mind.  It was on.

However, it was a game of strategy.  I couldn't just barge in and brazenly attack it head on.  No.  This had to be subtle, humane but lethal.  So I nonchalantly began with the two baskets of ironing that were loitering in my laundry room.  One piece after another, I plowed ahead.  One basket down, one to go.  Day 2 heralded my plan to divide and conquer.  I creeped surreptitiously into the darkened closets... Whites were separated from blacks, and these from delicates.  Oh the humanity.  But I showed no mercy as my day revolved around the mind-numbing task of moving wet loads to the dryer, and dry loads to sorted into ready-to-fold and need-to-be-ironed piles.  Folded piles were then delivered to their final resting places.  Day 3 meant more ironing, and dingy towels dying to be put out of their misery.  I obliged.  Day 4, ironing.  And today, Day 5.  Damn those men's shirts.  Damn them to hell.

But there is light at the end of my miserable plight to return to my throne of domestic diva extraordinaire.  Seven shirts and three pairs of pants sit awaiting their fate at the bottom of my ironing basket.  Yes.  You heard right.  The bottom.  And it's in sight.  Who knew hitting bottom would be such a sight for sore eyes.

So I think that a stiff drink is perfectly acceptable given the circumstances.  Anybody who has gone through Laundry Hell and lived to tell the tale would agree with me...  Cheers.