Orange Corduroy Overalls

Someday, hopefully in the distant future, I will make a fantastic senile person.

I firmly believe that there are three types of people. Those who sort their laundry, those who don't, and those who can't commit. I fall perfectly into the last category.

One day while doing laundry, I put a pair of orange corduroy overalls that I had picked up at a children's resale shop into the washing machine. I have become emotionally attached to these overalls because a) they are corduroy overalls and b) I like my children to look like part of the original sesame street cast.
Fast forward three hours later, when I remembered that I had clean laundry in the washing machine. As soon as I opened the lid to the washing machine, my eye caught a swatch of orange corduroy Those would make fantastic overalls! I thought to myself

I should have been elated when I pulled them out and discovered that they were already overalls, but instead I felt a small pang of melancholy wistfulness for the overalls that I would not get to make.

That Elusive Something

It's one of those things that you hear happen to other people, but you never expect it to happen to you. It's almost an abstract idea... Or perhaps likening it to a fairy tale would be more appropriate.
It's something often taken for granted by the childless, and coveted by the those with children.... and in some cases pets.

Truth be told, it had always seemed just out of reach for me. A hairsbreadth away. Something continually thwarted by a tea towel or a lone sock.
I cannot adequately express in words my amazement, or the euphoria that washed over me when I realized the implication. I was compelled to take a picture as photographic evidence.

Yes, I found the bottom of my laundry hamper.

To Catch A Laundry Gnome

I have a miniature replica of Mount Kilimanjaro in the corner of my living room made entirely out of laundry.
I'm going to pause for a moment, to let you reflect on my level of enthusiasm for geographical marvels.

It's pretty amazing.

However, a towel shortage in the kitchen and bathrooms have led me to believe it may be time to disassemble the mountain. Like the sane responsible adult that I am, I don't want to.

I mean I REALLY don't want to.

I started snatching towels and washcloths off of the top of the mountain. After all, I would wash them, replace them and no one would be the wiser.... Then Alex surprised me with a basket of dirty laundry he had been saving for me. And I changed all the bed linens. And then a little diaper laundry landed on the mountain. Now all the towels and washcloths aren't immediately accessible, and I'm a little uneasy about being buried in a laundry landslide.

I just don't think that would look right in my obituary.

So, folding laundry it is.

But, just as hope was flying out the window, I heard the soft whisper of a rumor. A mystical magical creature called the Laundry Gnome.

I immediately started Googling.

Alas, it was to no avail.

I realized that I would have to pioneer this quest on my own. I started reflecting on the stories I had heard as a child. There had to be a common element. With a sudden stroke of genius, I realized the key ingredient to gnome/elf luring technique. One must always leave gift.

Here's hoping!

Climbing Mt Morelaundry

I've been doing laundry for the last two days.

Wash. Dry. Sun. Fold. Hang. Put away. Sort. And repeat.

I have socks stuffed into random cervices. The carseat box that I haven't taken to the basement, has become a perfect place to hide socks. Same for the changing table, and my yarn basket. Oh and the basket that holds the phone chargers...
In case you can't tell, matching socks is not my favorite activity. In fact, I liken it to putting a incomplete puzzle together. It's just not satisfying because you can never finish it.

*deep sigh*

Doing laundry is like washing dishes. You are never really finished.

Oh an Ode to Maytag

The Trojans had a horse.

Achilles had a heel.

Superman had kyptonite.

I have laundry.

As I tried to stare down the pile of laundry homesteading on my laundry-closet floor, I had to ask myself how it could be possible for two people to generate so much laundry. I could swear that when we left the house today I only had one load of laundry sitting in the que, yet, when we returned I had three. The only logical explanation is that my laundry has been cross-bred with rabbits.

I started running the washer and dryer with a vengence. Load after load of clean laundry popped out of the washing machine, into the dryer and then onto my bed, where it waited patiently for me to fold it.

I moved it into baskets so I could sleep.

The next day I adjusted the papsan chair and converted it into my new clean-laundry-needing-to-be-folded holding center.

Instead of feeling accomplished, I felt guilty. What kind of June-Cleaver-Wannabe shuffles laundry from one place to another place, perpetually procrastinating on folding and putting it away? A tired one.

I need a laundry gnome.