How Her Clothes Sparked the Dreaded Phone Call for Him
11 Oct, 2012
This is precisely how I felt Friday morning. I was feeling like a woman in denial of the all chocolate and extra helpings of food in my suddenly too tight clothes. Except this time, the conviction wasn’t because of my waistline. It was because of my the size of clothes and I was furious. It was the kind of anger that makes the earth shake, sends birds flying from the trees, and causes mankind to double-check on their national security status. It was the kind of anger that stems from saving up for months and then spending a small nest egg on clothes.
I had high hopes of looking fabulous and comfortable on our Omaha trip, I had even imagined how put together our family would look in the photos we would take to capture the memorable day. I had even thought my stripes would be perfect for a family shot in front of the tiger pen.
It was not meant to be. As I rushed around the house, frantically packing our large family suitcase, I mentally noted it would probably be a good idea to tackle Mt. Laundry on a daily basis instead of once a week.All the clothes were piled on our couch downstairs. Rummaging through the pile, I found my new sweater, slacks, and striped shirt from Old Navy….but something was wrong, horribly wrong. These clothes had been put in a separate pile to hand-wash, what were they doing in the clean laundry pile?
My clothes were no longer the size of an average adult, instead they were small enough to fit three-year-old! As I squeaked in despair, Cheyenne came out of her bedroom.
“What happened to my clothes?” I exclaimed, as if her explanation would or could help.
“Dad got tired of waiting for his jeans so he stuffed the last three loads into the washer and dryer last night.” Chy stated matter of factly.
“Why would he do that?” I sputtered as I held up my itty bitty shirt, saying it more to myself than to my daughter. My husband was so great at helping out with all the household chores, but the one area that I have repeatedly asked him not to touch was the laundry.
“I dunno. He said something about you being a slacker.” Chy replied before bee-lining to her bedroom, she could see the eruption coming.
And then I let him have it. The phone call no man ever wants to receive at work. As his phone went to voice mail I hissed and re-dialed. When it went to voice mail again, my SCREAMING message sounded something like this:
Don’t you read labels? Why do you have to shove things in places where it doesn’t belong? Don’t you know that separate piles mean separate loads? If you want to continue sleeping upstairs with me–then don’t EVER, NEVER, NOT IN THIS LIFE TIME TOUCH THE LAUNDRY AGAIN.
As I left the message, Cheyenne had texted her Dad, warning him of the explosion happening at home. The phone call he dreaded had happened. His wife had lost her mind and his co-workers surrounding his cubical knew it too.
Minutes later, Chris arrived home, hands up ready to combat if needed, he profusely apologized for the laundry mishap. By then, my anger had subsided and as I packed his clothes, he promised to take me shopping. I realized then–clothes don’t make up who we are and I should be grateful my husband took the initiative to pitch in despite the outcome.
But here is a warning to our male audience….Laundry? DON’T DO IT, unless you read the labels first.
Otherwise you wife may look something like this…..