My Laundro-Mate

For men, laundry is like a basketball game where they strip naked and, while scratching themselves around their private parts, attempt jump shots which land about a foot short of the laundry hamper.

Which is pretty much where I find my husband’s clothes the next day. Usually seven pieces of apparel artfully arranged around the hamper; not inthe hamper, but aroundit. In basketball terms, this would be called a shutout at the hoop. 

This same game, by the way, is played around the dishwasher. If I’m lucky, I generally find plates and utensils on the counter or in the sink. Again, not inthe dishwasher, but aroundit. Apparently, the laundry and dish games are like horseshoes and hand grenades: ‘close’ counts.

My own mother was a veritable artist when it came to laundry. For years she would come into our rooms at the crack of dawn and snap those sheets off our beds like a Las Vegas magician doing tablecloth tricks. Our bodies would be launched into mid-air and before we touched down she would have the bed stripped. The door to the basement would be opened and our laundry would be hurled down the stairs into the black void. My mother would descend into that dark labyrinth, weave her magic spells and clean clothes would appear in our closets.

My husband is fond of reminding me that we no longer have to pound our clothes against rocks in the river and that appliances have now made housework easy. Obviously, my husband doesn’t do laundry or housework and likes dancing on the edge of that ‘marital bliss’ stuff. 

I gave him a tutorial on the washer and dryer concept and he gave me a tutorial on Fluff and Fold. Like Baskin & Robbins, my husband always had 31 pairs of briefs, undershirts and sox. For him, laundry was a once a month drive-by at the local fluff and fold. The month of February was a bonus because he had an extra day.

As the self-deputized ‘laundry quality control officer’, my husband and I have a continuing argument over a particular night shirt he has had since cotton was first milled. The shirt, and I use that term only in the most liberal sense, is not worthy of laundering and, in fact, may not even qualify as a car chamois. It has lost the pocket insignia, both cuffs, the tail and hem as well as the neckband. There are several holes in the sleeves and underarm. My husband insists it’s the most comfortable piece of clothing he owns. Of course it would be…it’s as technically close to being nude as a man could get. Why any man would continue to wear a piece of cloth which, at one time, was a perfectly acceptable t-shirt and now resembles a shredded paper towel is beyond me. Only Gigi Hadid could wear so limited a piece of cloth and still be remotely called “clothed.”

Each laundry day presents me with another chance to rid his wardrobe of this personal favorite. Unfortunately, this particular garment has longevity equaled only to the shelf life of Spam and Twinkies. Agitator, rapid spin, cold water, hot water, hot dryer, I’ve tried it all; the nightshirt always manages to survive. I’ve found it rescued from the dryer (How he found the dryer, I’m still unclear…) and stuffed under his pillow.So, each week, just like the seasons, the laundry cycle renews itself and I know I’ll find the nightshirt crumpled in a heap…next to, not in, the laundry hamper. Right next to my cotton terry bathrobe, the one with the knap worn off…