No scandalous secrets here, just loads and loads of laundry. Dirty clothes on the floors of the kids' rooms. Dirty clothes down by the washing machine. Damp towels on the bathroom floor. Clean clothes in the washer, waiting to be moved to the dryer. Clean clothes in the dryer, waiting to be folded. My laundry table, covered in clean clothes, some folded, most not, waiting to be moved. FOUR baskets of clean clothes in my bedroom, waiting to be put away. All of it, every last stitch, needing to be evaluated and divided into Keep, Toss, Give Away piles.
The phrase Dirty Laundry does not apply merely to what needs to be washed. Dirty is a general adjective to convey the exceedingly high level of my antipathy for laundry. Kind of like saying I have so much f***ing laundry, or "it's a dirty, scrappy, unpleasant, never-ending job, but someone's got to do it."
I fear I will not prevail over this laundry. I fear I am already defeated. The only thing to do is to write poetry. Or rather, to steal someone else's poetry. In words, I shall seek the strength I need.
Sonnet to my F***ing LaundryHow do I hate thee? Let me count the ways.
I hate thee to the depth and breadth and height
My arms can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of towels and underpants.
I hate thee to the level of my family’s
Most urgent need, all day and every night.
I hate thee freely, as boys toss their socks about.
I hate thee purely, as girls turn outfits into piles.
I hate thee with a passion put to use
In my former life, and with frightening strength.
I hate thee with a hate I hope to lose
When my small saints move out.
I hate thee with the breath,
Fibers, tears, of all my life!—and, so help me God,
I shall put this hate to use to conquer you.
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