The Laundry Lord

Four girls generate an impossible amount of laundry. Wishing doesn’t make it go away. No one listens to my requests to stop wearing clothes. I personally thought it was a novel idea.

At least four baskets of clean rumpled clothing inhabit floor space at any given time. I guess it’s a reasonable ratio for the number of girls.

My enemy (Time) challenges me daily with dirty laundry. We share a washer and dryer with a number of family members (mostly girls). While I am thankful a laundromat isn’t on the top of my Places to Visit list, it still feels like one. Everyone is nice. On the outside.

There is a silent battle for the machines. I grimace when someone holds the next spot by placing a dirty bin next to the washer. My insides twist as images of laundry mountains haunt me. “Noooooooooo! You were home all day yesterday! I saw you!!! Ahhhh!” If my thoughts are transmitted telepathically, I am screwed.

Inside my head, I have fallen to my knees in defeat. There’s no negotiation. I don’t just pretend to be Supermom. I am Superwoman, She-ra and Wonder Woman all rolled up into one bad-a$$ b–… Aww, who am I kidding? Everyone is nice on the outside, remember? I will just look crazy if I argue over a load of laundry.

Even if it took this person ALL day to do two loads. I know, because I did a stake out on the machines.

I am the Laundry Lord. I will be watching.


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