My workload Tuesday was light, a typical end of the month Tuesday. I ran some errands, visited a jobsite to pick up paperwork, and headed home to hang out with the dogs.
Because we've been travelling so much on the weekends, it was nice to just be around the house. It was a warmish sunny day. I did some outdoor cleanup with the chainsaw and would have done more, but I ran out of gas. Literally. Energy I had, but the chainsaw does not run on energy alone. It demands liquid nourishment. Going to the gas station to get more seemed like too much trouble, so I cleaned up what I had accomplished and stashed the saw for another day.
Inside, I turned on the stereo and popped Avril Lavigne into the CD player. (What does it say about me that I really enjoy her song "Sk8er Boi"? I am such a dork.) I bopped around the kitchen doing a little of this, a little of that and a bit of the other. With the quiches in the oven, I spied the pile of dirty, very dirty, clothes on our bedroom floor from when I had unpacked the day before. "Ah ha!" I thought. "I'll surprise Wendy and do that laundry. But first I'll wash our sheets and comforter."
Most of you know I am not in charge of laundry at our house. There is a reason for that. But I did laundry for years before I lucked into my dear Wendy, the Laundry Queen. I know how to do it. Step one is, of course, sorting. I ended up with five loads: sheets, comforter, jeans and sweatshirts, other colored things, and whites.
The sheets were in the dryer when Wendy arrived home. Doggedly, I continued the cycles despite her protests that I should just leave it for her. I was determined to finish what I had started. But by the time I took load three out of the dryer and filled it up with load four, I'd about had it. I left the whites in a pile by the laundry room door, folded the clean jeans and abandoned the clothes currently in the dryer.
And that, my friends, is one reason I'm not in charge of laundry at Casa de Lesbiana Suburbanas. I rarely finish the job.
When Wendy came home last night, she headed to the laundry room. "Suzanne?" I heard her call up the stairs, "What's with the sticky stuff smeared all over the inside of the dryer?" She sounded remarkably calm. I giggled nervously as I headed down to take a look.
Sure enough, sticky splotches liberally dotted the dryer drum. "Looks like you may have left a piece of gum in a pocket," she opined.
Reason two I am not in charge of laundry. I forget to check pockets. We laughed together as I scrubbed out the mess.
After I finished, Wendy gave me a hug and said, "Honey, we really should stick to playing to our strengths, okay? And laundry just isn't one of yours."
That Wendy. She's a smart one.