Airing my clean, but wrinkly and unfolded laundry


Courtesy Boston Public Library via Flickr

Washing machine – check. Clothes dryer – check. Detergent and fabric softener – check. Piles of dirty clothes – check and double check.

I have all the modern day supplies and equipment to do a load of laundry. Yet, I struggle. I just can’t bring myself to sort, carry, load, unload and fold my clothes. At least not on regular basis.

Honestly, I haven’t done a load of laundry in at least two months. And I don’t even really have to wash the clothes; the machine does it for me.

Now, I’ll clarify and say that I am not walking around in ketchup stained, smelly T-shirts. My husband has picked up the slack and lovingly tosses our clothes in the washing machine each weekend. He usually remembers to transfer them to the dryer. But this is where he begins to slack off. Once they’re dry, they sit atop the dryer or on the ironing board or even just live in the dryer for a while.

This where we currently stand with our laundry (both Martha Stewart and my mother will surely be disappointed):


One load in the dryer, where it would probably stay for the rest of the week, except there’s a load waiting in the washer right now.

clothes on dryer

Another load on top of the dryer.

clothes on ironing board

And one in the laundry basket on the ironing board, just begging for a cat to come sit in it.

Like this

Like this…

Or this - double trouble.

Or this – double trouble.

Of course, I’m not picking on my husband. This is far better than I do each weekend.

It’s even become a running joke in our house. Whenever I’m looking for something that happens to be in the basement he always says, “It’s in the basement, by the washing machine … Oh, I’m sorry. You aren’t going to know where that is. So there’s this big white box and you put clothes in it…”

He thinks he’s really funny.

But what is it about laundry? Why is it I can unload the dishwasher? Or vacuum the rug? They’re not my favorite things to do, but I still do them.

I don’t even have to use one of these when I do laundry:


Courtesy Jennifer C. via Flickr

Is it because laundry becomes an all day ordeal, even if I’m not actually doing the washing? Is it because it reminds me of all those Sundays getting ready for the dreaded work-week ahead? Do I just hate going in the basement? (I really do hate the basement). Am I just waiting for the day that there’s an App for that?

What are your thoughts? Is there something you dread and put off until someone else does it? Do your cats go straight for the basket of clean laundry, making it all furry and wrinkly? Are you one of those crazy people that enjoys doing laundry?

When tomatoes attack

Jen with tomatoesTomatoes in the sock drawer. Popping up in the medicine cabinet. Even surrounding my cat as he sleeps. This is what happens when tomatoes attack. And this weekend they became so vicious the fire department had to intervene.

It all started in May when the hubby and I decided to plant a couple of tomatoes. We had one plant last year and this year we wanted more, because more is always better, right? And for some reason we think our little plot of land is the equivalent to 50 acres of bucolic farmland.

We planted the small Roma my co-worker had given us and then headed to the garden store. Time wasn’t on our side, so we grabbed a few seedlings and dashed out of the store.

My hubby prepared the soil. I sat back and pointed out all the things he was doing wrong. He dug. Then planted. He handed me the plant tags. I read them. What does indeterminate mean? I Googled. I stood up. I surveyed the area our new plants called home.

Uh oh. We now had two plants in a space that should have held one. Time still not on our side, we decided we’d deal with it later.

This is what the space looks like now:

Better Boy and Indigo Rose all snaggled together

Better Boy and Indigo Rose all snaggled together

We also realized we took home an interloper. We had an Indigo Rose, not a Better Boy. I Googled again. Well, these are some strange tomatoes. They turn purple as they are exposed to sunlight. Thinking they were ready when they turned purple (never mind that they were still green on the bottom), I ate a few very unripe tomatoes before realizing they turned purple first, and then red. This is what a ripe one looks like:

See how it's red on the underside

See how it’s red on the underside, not green

Now the end of summer is upon us and our four plants are churning out fruit faster than we can say two tasty tomato plants tangled together. Why we thought we needed four tomato plants, I don’t know. And we weren’t prepared for the ambush to come.

I found a sauce recipe online and began peeling and chopping.

The next week I made another batch of sauce and within a few days the tomatoes were back. They were multiplying… exponentially… times 64 squared. I mean, I had a ton of tomatoes and they were everywhere. Look at what happened to my house:

They escaped from the counter and ended up...

They escaped from the counter and ended up…

In the sock drawer (No, I don't pair my socks anymore. Who has time?)

In the sock drawer (No, I don’t pair my socks anymore. Who has time?)

In the medicine cabinet (Stop trying to read the bottle labels. I know you are)

In the medicine cabinet (Stop trying to read the bottle labels. I know you are.)

Surrounding my sleeping cat (He looks terrified, doesn't he?)

Surrounding my sleeping cat (He looks terrified, doesn’t he?)

Even in the fruit bowl (I guess that's not weird. Tomatoes are a fruit.)

Even in the fruit bowl (I guess that’s not weird. Tomatoes are a fruit.)

Finally the squirrels decided to help out. They need Lycopene too. But their little mouths and bellies were no match for the might of the tomatoes.

Squirrel doing best he can to slow the attack.

Squirrel doing what he can to slow the attack.

I decided to make sauce again. This time my hubby suggested we let it simmer over night. Well, he’s usually pretty smart and savvy in the kitchen. So, I went to bed with our yummy sauce bubbling away.

The next morning, as I prepared for my cousin’s upcoming wedding weekend, the carbon monoxide detector starting blaring. I silenced it. Two minutes later it alarmed. I silenced it again. And again it warned of certain death. Fine. I would love to have the fire department over. The house was embarrassingly messy, my hair was soaking wet, my fingernail polish was still drying, and we had to be out of the house in two hours.

The fire department to the rescue!

The fire department to the rescue!

Four men showed up armed with a contraception that looked like the ghost detector in Ghost Busters. They went right for the stove.  Yep, our simmering sauce was the culprit. The firemen aired out the house with a giant fan and gave us a tutorial on how to vent our little house.

The giant fan that saved our lives and scared our cats to death.

The giant fan that saved our lives, effectively dried my nail polish, and scared our cats to death.

We also learned that a wager was made on their way over. Stove versus water heater. One fireman was very lucky that day.

Now, as I look out my back window, I see more. They are coming and they must be eaten. What will I do with them? There must be something other than tomato sauce. Please help, before they attack again…