Weekly laundry, with cat for scale
Laundry is never done. Unless you live alone and can do your laundry naked (hopefully without leaving your home!), then it’s the same story every time: just after you finish putting it all away, you take off your clothes and put them into the empty laundry basket. The snake is hungry for its tail again.
As you may have guessed, because nothing at the fun apartment is easy and uncomplicated, doing laundry is kind of a pain in the you-know-what. We’re a family of four, so there’s plenty of laundry every week, but there’s no laundry facilities in our building. Or on our block. Or the next block. But there is one on the block after that.
An upshot: I get to do laundry ALL BY MYSELF. After several frustrating months (I’m a slow learner) of trying to keep Little happy in his stroller and TRex from eating the food offerings from the Buddhist altar set right at his eye level, I finally decided my that mother-in-law’s offer to babysit while I did the laundry was not only earnest but life-saving.
So now, I set the boys and their sainted grandmother up with some fun snacks and I lug 40 lbs of laundry down from the 4th floor over to 8th Avenue. I cram it *all* in the triple loader and I wash it in cold. (My husband claims that when he does the laundry, he actually separates it into different colored loads, but as this only happens semi-annually, he’s welcome to his way.)
I have this belief that one should wear one’s sloppiest clothes to do laundry, because one probably will want to wear some of the more favored clothes during the coming week. In practice, this means that I am wearing seriously misshapen pants that haven’t ever fit me, and I have to walk around clutching the waistband with one hand, lest they fall down to unmotherly levels due to the $35 in quarters I have in the pockets. But at least I’m alone!
During the wash cycle, I usually have errands to run. I save these up to do solo, because if I do them with my “helpers,” we are not “running” errands, so much as dragging them.
It’s the dryers, though, that give me the strength to continue on. While our clothes are chasing each other around in those little hotboxes, I scoot over to a cafe a block away. In their darkest, cosiest corner with a glass of their cheapest wine, I have almost 30 minutes all my own. ALL MY OWN.
I’ve sworn up and down that when we live in the dream house, our laundry won’t have to go on field trips like this anymore. But I wonder where I’ll find those 30 minutes. . . .