The True Rewards of Laundry

Frustration is good for the soul.

This is what I tell myself when twelve loads of laundry in a day are insufficient to produce the required gym shorts for all three girls. I try to be flexible. My eight children however, aren’t always nearly so accommodating.

“Those are my shorts.”
“Do you need a pair for today?”

“No.”
“Then let your sister wear them.”

“No.”

Now, the maternal gene does protect against the natural human reaction to such situations. Still, to deal with the work load, my husband and I have created systems. Laundry systems designed to prevent this sort of wardrobe malfunction from disrupting the morning routine.

Everyone has a laundry bag. Even the baby. There is a bag for the towels and a bag for dry cleaning too. Note to self, never get those last two mixed up ever again.

There shall be no mixing of laundry bags so that the wash/dry /fold tasks do not include sorting according to size or child, only color. It’s been working pretty well except for the final part of the job, the kids doing the wash. I’ve taught the top five how. They view washing their clothes as something you do like quarterly taxes.

So I was finishing up the last wash of the day. My husband had worked late himself and looked at the twelve neat piles, whistled and asked “So, the system is working well?” He picked up a few socks and mated them. I conceded, it had cut back on some of the work. This was insufficient praise for the economy of the system as envisioned by the designer. “So even if you never get additional help doing all the laundry from the kids…”

“Stop. Do Not Even Finish that sentence.”

“…Would you like a foot rub?”
"Ooh. Yes."

“And a bowl of ice cream and a diet coke.”
"That would be great!"

“And I’ll finish this load shall I?”

“Thank you.”

The system works.

The Prodigal Sink

Last week, my upstairs sink stopped working. There was no note, no explanation, nothing. I tried turning the knobs underneath and discovered that they leak very nicely when you do.

“Honey, the upstairs sink has no water. I should call a plumber.”

“You always want to call a plumber. It just stopped working…maybe it will start up again.”

“That’s like thinking the sink is Lassie and she ran away and might come back.”

“You never know. It’s a harsh cruel world out there and she might miss the comfort and safety of having green watermelon toothpaste smeared to her sides on a daily basin.” My husband tried turning the knobs, discovering the same leak.

“She might have quit because of the toothpaste. Think she prefers one with tartar control?”

“Just give it time. We don’t have to call this second. The kids can use the other sink. We can wait.”

“What are we waiting for? Godot?”

“No, we’re waiting for the spigot to go.”

A vigil for the recalcitrant sink began.

Meanwhile, other plumbing fixtures decided to pull an intervention. Toilets began random gurgling in solidarity with the sink. These were annoying, but insufficient to merit what I guessed would be a hefty service fee and four hour wait by the doorbell.

The fixtures grew more impatient, so the kitchen sink took action. The stream from the faucet became an anemic trickle. Worse than pure stoppage which would have ensured a prompt phone call to the proper authorities, it became work to get things wet. I limped through dishwashing. It took hours. I tried switching to an all paper plate economy but cooking still required some items be washed.

In desperation, I tried running the faucet before there were even dishes to do. Forty five minutes later, the sink was full and I had to drain the pasta. Watching that hard earned water go down the drain, I had an inspiration. I replugged the sink and drained the pasta, hoping the water would cool by the time I did dishes.

That evening, the plumber was looking oh so affordable and lovely to my reddened hands. Being weak, I called.

“We can send a truck next Thursday sometime between twelve and four. Will someone be there?”

“I have a Dr.'s appointment at two.”

“The next time available is June 5th.”

Visions of family visiting Memorial Day weekend and finding a non working sink and languid kitchen flow made me impulsively ask, “How much for coming tomorrow?”

“An extra $100 for the emergency service plus the standard rate of $55 for the first half hour.”

Meekly agreeing to the fiscal extortion, all I could think was “Lassie! Lassie come home!”

Now What?

Today, I made the A team.

I had the Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer moment "I'm Cute. I'm Cute...they said I'm Cute!"

It took 41 years but I did it.

After multiple After school ABC special worthy auditions to volley ball, high school musicals and college dance troops and bands, where I always wondered when I was put in the chorus or on the b-team if they were just having pity on me, today I made the cut. I'm doing standup comedy in front of 400 humor writers in Dayton, Ohio at the close of the Erma Bombeck workshop. 34 brave souls auditioned. 12 will perform.

I'm first.

Suddenly, that bench warming spot is looking very comforting.

It's not that I'm afraid of public speaking. Speaking my mind has never been much of a problem. I'm afraid I'll bomb.


You see, every time I write a piece, the instant it's polished and published, I have three seconds of peace and then the nags begin.


That was a good piece.
What if that's the last funny I ever write?
What if there is no more in the tank?

Oh No!

And then I get to reading and obsessing and following my toddlers around writing terrible first drafts about the fight they're having over two wooden blocks and who gets to stare at the cereal box while they eat.


I've pointed out that neither of them can read but this never seems to matter much.


Six half sputter starts later, I'll throw the notebook into my huge bag of must come everywhere with me stuff and call my husband about the dry spell.


“Sherry, you just got a piece accepted yesterday.”
“Yes, but I haven't written anything today!”


Now my husband is a very patient man. He has a variety of tricks for handling my roller coaster response to success and failure.

When I complain because I got rejected for example:
"Well, I guess it wasn't what they were looking for, maybe it needed more work."


"What? It was wonderful! I proofed it. I vetted it. It got good responses. That's it, I'm submitting it again and they'll be sorry."


Other times, he uses reverse psychology.

"You're right, you'll never write something that funny again."
"How do you know?"
"You just said so."
"No. I won't write like that again. I'll write something even better. You'll see."


When he's busy and I pull this stunt, he has an emergency escape button. "I'll bring home two Chocolate! Chocolate! truffles. (It's a store on the base floor of his office building)." This mollifies me instantaneously.
“Thanks sweetie, I’ll call you later. Sorry to bother you.”


Finally, he has a trump card. "Why don't you let me read it?"

Nothing makes me edit better or faster than knowing He's going to read my stuff. It’s like my writing is getting ready for a date with his brain. I have to primp before I can show it.


Except I've never done stand up.


I tried telling him the routine over the phone. This was a bad idea.
After five minutes of talking and hearing the sound of fingers clicking away at the computer sound an awful lot like crickets chirping, I told him, I'd call back later.


In his defense, he Was working.


So I hijacked my kids for an instant audience.
Little did I know, I'd just signed on the three judges of American Idol.


Would be Simon: "I'm very surprised, I almost laughed." I think it's revenge for my critique of his English paper last week.

Paula Wantabe: "It was wonderful. What are you going to wear?" She began bringing me sparkly things.

Randy and the Dawg Pound: Started making up their own material, ignored me completely.



But I'm not discouraged. At 41, there are precious few things one gets the opportunity to do that are "cool" that do not involve:


1) an outlay of serious cash to cover medical expenses,
2) breaking the law,
3) engaging in self denial.


April 5th in Dayton, Ohio. Mark your calendars. I may need a few more Chocolates for this one.
for possibly less neurotic doses of humor than this one, try http://www.humor-blogs.com/!

My Husband's Growing Obsession

When my husband started volunteering to run errands, I should have recognized something was up. “The kids need to get haircuts this weekend and I have to go grocery shopping.” I’d say. He’d gallantly offer, “Why don’t you stay here and relax while the babies nap and I’ll get the haircuts and the shopping done.” Three hours later, he returned. I figured it had just been a crowded day at the barbers and that they’d eaten lunch, but then I discovered the skeletal shopping delivery (milk, bread, peanut butter and diapers). I thought he stayed outside the rest of the afternoon to avoid explaining the groceries. Then the kids came in and asked for food.

Over time, our garage began to grow cluttered with specialized equipment that in my horticultural ignorance, I could not identify. Catalogs advertising heirloom tomato plants and hedgers and designs for plots began to litter our bedroom. A plastic green house was set up in the bathroom to grow vegetables from seeds, rendering my tub unavailable for human use for six weeks. Then things began to get out of hand.

Having ignored the warning signs, his habit became so consuming he no longer sought to hide it. For Mother’s day, he landscaped the front entrance and mulched the trees that line our driveway. He put in a garden commemorating our son’s high school mascot and colors to celebrate Father’s Day. When my birthday rolled around, I got a garden as a gift, complete with a contemplative looking Greek goddess statue. I had hinted how much I’d like a real dining room table. Staring at the white plaster half naked woman in my back yard, as my husband talked rapturously about the newly planted shrubs and the color alternation and which shrubs required more shade and how much dirt it took to create the raised bed effect, I wondered how much this present set us back.

Not wanting to seem ungrateful for his time or labor or gift, I began an investigation into the past three months of bills to determine the scope of his growing obsession. I went online to discover the twelve signs of gardening addiction. Did he frequently have dirty finger nails? Check. Had he recently bought sun block for himself, asked about the water bill or considered getting a name brand hardware store credit card for rewards? Check. Check and check. Did he listen to radio programs that discussed lawn care? Check. Had he talked about renting a back hoe to create a bigger plot? Check. Was he resentful of the lawn service that mowed the grass weekly? Check. All the signs were there, it was time for an intervention.

“Dear? I know how you love to garden…” I began with a practical approach.
“See how the new shade tree will cover the more fragile flowers. And it should enhance our property value.” He said happily.

“But we’re on a strict budget…I’ve been totaling the expenses, we’re spending more on soil than food …”

“I’m growing food. Have you tasted the German Queen tomatoes? They’re heirloom. They look ugly but in my opinion, there isn’t a better tasting one…here, have a cherry.” And he popped a freshly picked tomato in my mouth.

Undeterred, I held up the credit card charges, having highlighted the garden related expenses. “We were going to save for some furniture, grown up stuff? Stuff we wouldn’t have to cover with a table cloth to serve food to company?”

“Like the rocks I got from the quarry? They frame the pond better than just a hedge I think.” He popped a yellow pear tomato in my mouth.

“How much did that cost?” I asked after I finished chewing.

“No interest for twelve months. You need to savor the experience of the tomato, try eating it slowly.” He popped another in my mouth.
“You’ve been to a quarry?”

“To buy rocks.”

“Wait, quarries have payment plans?”

He breathed in the fresh air as the sun cast beautiful deep shadows on our lawn, framing the whole yard in a lovely pink glow. “Oh,” he sighed, “I just love gardening. It’s relaxing to me.”

“Well yes but…” I was failing, reaching for another tomato even as I spoke. “But it’s getting a bit much don’t you think? I mean, you are paying for rocks.”

Handing me two more tomatoes and a few for himself, he sighed.
“Okay, okay, I’ll cut back I promise. I won’t go to the hardware store or the nursery unless I check with you first.”

Satisfied, I returned to the inside of our home, feeling like I’d just grounded a kid for studying too much. He looked dejected as he wound up the hose and lovingly cleaned his trowels to let them air dry before storage.

Going cold turkey gardening proved difficult, as his beautiful beds needed watering, feeding, trimming and in the case of the tomatoes, harvesting. Daily trips to care for our grounds proved too powerful an enticement to resist, so he did the only thing an admitted addict can do to cope with said obsession, attempt to convert additional followers.

First, he conscripted our daughters for watering duties. “Daddy said I could play with the hose!” Then he went after our sons with the lure of power tools. Imagine the thrill of an eight year old son being allowed to cut away dead wood with a saw. “Glorious manly work at last!” His smile said to me.

Converting the watchdog of the operation was a problem. Gardening has never been a relaxing experience for me, I kill plants. I never plan to, I just do. I overwater, forget to provide adequate shade and constantly wonder why they die in my care. If plants are so temperamental and fragile, how do they survive without competent help? My husband put my skills for destroying flora wherever I touch to their best possible advantage and made me the official weeder of the grounds. I’m good. I’m real good, and I get first pick of the German Queens as compensation.

So now we are a steady growing colony of gardeners and I have come to at least appreciate these lovely grounds he’s creating. It’s become a family weekend event, with kids gathering sticks, digging up baby potatoes, arguing over who grew the watermelon. And I smile at it all, wearing my garden gloves and talking about how black mulch sets off the side of our home better. Not only did he create a codependency in me with regular fixes of heirloom tomatoes, sugar snap peas that really snap and unbelievably tender squashes, he also bought me a few nice table cloths.

So I’ll live with the quality press wood furniture a little longer, at least until winter anyway.