Do you hate doing laundry? Please don’t.

I’m here to ask you to re-think this.

Why? Because you have the privilege of doing laundry. Yes, the privilege. You are able to do the following while laundry is cleaned: Stay in the comfort of your home. Wear pajamas. Drink wine. Watch bad TV.

Here, in the Land of the Endless Basement Renovation, there is no in-home laundry nirvana. So I’ve explored other options:

1) Become the Kato Kaelin of Laundry. In this model, I turn up at the homes of friends and relatives with pounds and pounds of dirty clothes. This requires that I stay for an extended period of time and impose upon them.

Which means we may or may not have shown up at my mother’s recent family party with six loads of laundry. It was like coming home from college – with a husband and two kids. {And I brought an appetizer. I mean, let’s not be tacky.}

2) Use the Drop-Off Wash & Fold. Having lived in Manhattan for years, this was familiar territory to me; most apartment buildings’ laundry “facilities” are often housed in a terrifying boiler room that surely doubles as the NYC Serial Killer Headquarters.

So. One dollar per pound? I’m in. I’ll give you two.

If memory served from my NYC wash & fold life, I would get to come back to find my 30 pounds of laundry miraculously folded like origami in one small sandwich-sized bag.

Not this time.

When I arrived for pick-up, excited to be reunited with pieces of clothing I hadn’t worn in weeks, I was greeted by this:

“Oooooh, it’s you. Uh, hi.”

“Hi. What’s wrong? Where’s my sandwich bag?”

“Wellllll. Your laundry accidentally got combined with someone else’s.”

{Blinking audibly}

“So, if you could just go through this basket and pick out your stuff, that would be great.”

{Internal screaming}

During this process, I asked for salad tongs to remove the pair of very European men’s underwear (which could’ve used extra bleach, incidentally) from atop my daughter’s Dora pajamas.

And so ended my patronage of this particular establishment.

With no upcoming family gatherings to which I can haul my laundry, where does this leave me? Clearly things need to change in order to minimize the mountain of dirty clothes:

• I could insist my kids eat in the nude.
• Or color while wearing Hazmat suits.
• Or get an overnight catheter for my four year-old.

These are just ideas I’m throwing around.

In the meantime, remember: Laundry is a privilege.

And, yes, that’s me in your driveway with two big baskets of dirty clothes, my naked kids and a bottle of fabric softener. Can I come in for a while?

About the Writer
Kim Forde is a mother of two and a fledgling suburban SAHM, just trying to live through one of the longest home renovation projects in modern American history.  She is fueled by caffeine, wine, snark, and years of pent up urban road rage.  She can be found on her blog, The Fordeville Diaries, where is she often planning a hoarding intervention for her husband, loathing arts & crafts projects and wondering how her life became a live-audience HGTV marathon.

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You’re thrilled you’re reading this, aren’t you?

The thing about pockets is: they’re a great place to stuff things. That’s literally what they’re designed for. The problems start when you introduce a person who is constantly rushing about and has a penchant for losing things (read: me) to a pair of pockets.

Naturally, my rats would have the fashion sense of an 11-year-old girl

Case in point: I’ve been working with my toddler on not throwing things on the floor when he’s done with them. In the past he’d rush to fling empty juice boxes to the floor as though he were trying to create his own personal landfill. As I am adamantly anti-littering, this has become something of an ongoing battle between us. Recently though, he’s started to concede the battle and listen to me.

In theory, this development is great. In practice this means that any time and anywhere my son finds some garbage he finds it imperative to hand it to me. If I were to, say, toss his chewed-on lollipop stick or the grimy sticker he found on his shoe to the floor, I’d sort of be negating the lesson. So where does the garbage go? Into my pocket, of course!

I can’t blame it all on the toddler, though. As I am anti-littering, it’s not uncommon to find my pockets lined with the old receipts and used Kleenex that I refuse to leave lying around. Look people, it’s rude to leave your trash for someone else to deal with. Plus, it’s bad for the environment or whatever. So in the course of a day, my pockets get stuffed with more crap than your average time capsule. In addition to all that crap, I keep stuff I need easy access to in my pockets. So my keys, phone, and lip balm live amongst the garbage in my pockets. Don’t worry, I also keep some Purell in there.

In short, my pockets are only avoiding becoming a rat habitat through a daily cleansing regimen on the train and a small bottle of hand sanitizer. That’s the thing about pockets: they’re a health risk if not managed properly.

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Valentine’s Day is just around the corner and there are tons of adorable, glitter-y, do-it-yourself Valentine tutorials making the rounds on the internets. I’m all for handmade but I know that a LOT of us just don’t have the kind of time to cut out doilies and get glitter all over the damn place. So, instead of teaching you how to make a valentine from scratch, I straight up made one for you because I love you. I mean, I don’t KNOW all of you but I’m just going to assume you’re lovable and not like, a puppy killer or anything. I hate puppy killers. And killers in general. 

Here you go! Just click, save, print, and fill it in.

 Here are some samples for you in case you need some loving inspiration.

I’m talking about far more dastardly deeds than just doing The Deed. I’m talking about dreadful, heinous acts that I perform for my husband. Things like watching movies starring Kevin Costner or listening to Rush. Oh, the humanity.

Now, I’m not one for chick flicks. I do not indulge in watching the Real Housewives bicker with each other and pull one another’s hair. I rarely make my husband go shopping and when I do, I never make him hold my purse. If anything, he’s the one constantly asking to go shopping, insisting he needs a new pair of shoes because his casual brown ones are scuffed.

With this in mind, I think it only fair that I get excused from having Texas Hold’em poker tournaments in my house. Whenever such a manly activity occurs in your home, you find yourself futilely fighting the stink of dude for weeks. Your house continues to smell like old sweat socks, cigars, Jack Daniels, and balls for what seems like an eternity. As a woman who has never so much as jokingly asked for a Coach purse, I’m fairly certain my nose should be excused from these offenses.

I’m fully supportive of my husband getting his dude on as long as it does not occur in my house. I also do not want to participate in activities teeming with testosterone. The thought of having to endure a film about cars driving fast or furious, or–heaven forbid–both fast and furious is enough to make me want to launch myself out a window.

Why is it that we live in an age when being pregnant and barefoot in the kitchen is not enough for me to be considered a good wife? Seriously, I like being pregnant and I hate shoes, so I could easily fulfill the 1950s protocols for being an ideal housewife. Sure, I hate cooking and I refuse to mop floors but I rock at being pregnant and barefoot.

But no, to be a good wife you now have to care when the NFL draft will occur. Not so that you can cook your mate a hearty meal for the festivities, but because you’re expected to have opinions on which college QB should be a first round pick. I can’t take it! It’s too much pressure to emulate dude culture! I just want to read my book!

Seriously, can’t we just have sex instead?

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I’m a smart person. Mostly. There are times, however, when I wonder how I am able to function without harming myself or others.

I’m embarrassed to tell you how long it was before I realized that a bookmark magnet was actually a magnet like you put on the fridge and NOT a magnetic book mark that I was somehow too dumb to use and may have almost torn apart trying to figure out how to separate its non-existent parts to get it to work.

And by work, I mean somehow magnetically mark my page in the book I was reading.  Which I don’t even know why that’s a thing, because I very seldom read books that have metal components.

There was the morning when I decided to soak some new sheets in a last ditch effort to get this weird smell out [a weird petro-chemical smell, probably from the plastic bag they were stored in, but COULD HAVE BEEN a secret plot to spread some sarin-type gas attack distributed through packages of 500 thread count sheets from Bed Bath and Beyond. Who knows for sure?] before I finally decided to say fuck it and return them.

Anyway, I went down to the laundry room and set the washer to soak [after having washed the sheets at least 4 times - second rinse each time. Suck it, diminishing water table.], and came back upstairs.

While eating my DELICIOUS oatmeal, I heard this weird noise, this gurgle gurgle gurgle. At first I thought it was one of the cats [she slurps licking herself], and then I realized it was COMING FROM DOWNSTAIRS.

Fuck.

I wondered how I would deal with whatever watery catastrophe was on hand and mustered up my courage, following the sound into the laundry room, hoping for a chainsaw wielding crazy so at least I wouldn’t have to call a plumber, when I found that:

The washer wasn’t doing anything.

But the sink?

Yeah, I had left the faucet on after washing my hands. Evidently I don’t wash my hands enough to remember how to turn off the goddamn faucet.

Finally, there was the day where people kept tweeting “May the 4th be with you!” and I thought that was cute and funny and wondered if people did that on Twitter every month on the 4^th because they love Star Wars so much.

A little while later, I was listening to a radio station play Irish music and thought, “Why would the DJ play Irish music right before Cinco de Mayo? Isn’t that weird?” Like a lightning bolt, it hit me:

Cinco de Mayo.

May the 5^th.

The day after…

May the 4^th.

May the 4th be with you.

Ah.
About the Writer
Liberal. Impatient. And profane. No. Seriously. Really, really foul-mouthed.
 Find me at The Suniverse. 

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Sibling bonding starts early.

My son has always been a happy and smiley boy. His first smiles were huge, infectious and almost goofy. I knew right away that he was going to be an outgoing kid who would no doubt keep me on my toes. No one can make that boy laugh (and cry!) the way his big sister does. The sibling bond is strong with these two and it shows not only in the way they connect but the influence they have on one another.

I don’t discourage the interests of a child’s mind and I try to allow them to explore what they like rather than what I’d like them to like. I’m very open minded and encourage my kids to figure themselves out. You will never hear me say “Boy’s don’t do that,” or “Those are just for girls!” so my son tends to pick up on activities his older sister digs.

This has led to some hilarious moments that I haven’t discouraged and of course documented… which probably makes me the worst mother ever. If something hilarious happens I tend to jump for the camera first and ask questions later. I figure all the sleepless nights we are trying to survive, stressed moments, defiant tantrums that make us want to poke our eyes out are all payments for the gems I can capture.

My son may hate me and my camera one day or he may embrace his individuality… either way, he better watch his butt when he is in high school because I got this ammo:

Fierce Cheerleader: Lock Up Your Daughters

Big Sister's First Mickey Ears Look Adorable on Him

They Didn't Mind Sharing Dress-Up Clothes

He Rolls with Princesses

He Walks in Them Better Than Mommy

Fabulous Little Brother

And just in case my son one day finds this post I just want to say: Mommy loves you very much and always will. I warned you… now go clean your room.

I love my mom. Really. I mean, she allowed me to feed off of her like some sort of umbilically-attached succubus for a few months while I grew into me. When I kicked her in the ribs or sat on her kidney, she didn’t slap me through her stomach. She didn’t even complain about the extra month I decided to spend “on the inside” before finally heading towards the light as babies do. She cared for me even before I got here, so what’s not to love about the woman?

Got a phone call from mom one Saturday morning. She was actually calling me to tell me about this really…vivid…dream she’d had. OK, so what was the dream?

Apparently, I’d pulled a Runaway Bride. Actually, I’d never shown up. She said she dreamt she’d gotten a call telling her that I had not shown up at the church. (Wait! It gets better.) She said she was so sad she started to cry. Then she ran into the groom-to-be’s mom when she was on the bus taking food (I have no idea where this food was going). She said she talked to the lady and apologized for me not showing up. She said she just kept crying and apologizing for me. She said that everyone was at the church ready to go…except there was no bride.

She then said that she called me to talk about why I wasn’t there, and she said that I simply explained that I wasn’t going to do it and that was it. She said she started to fuss at me, and I got as quiet as I typically do when she’s fussing at me.

*Truth be told, I’m actually zoning out, but she needn’t know that.*

Then in the dream, she realized that I had hung up the phone. Then she woke up.

She woke UP? WAIT!!! What was his name? When did we meet? Where did we meet? How old was I? Details, old woman! I need details!

I spent about the next fifteen minutes explaining why this had to be a dream:

1. We don’t have public transportation in our town.
2. If it’s a wedding, chances are it’s probably a catered event. No bringing of food necessary.
3. If it’s my wedding day, then why wasn’t she with ME? Hello? Bride here. Where’s my mother?
4. I know better than to hang up on my mother.

She thinks it’s funny, but I can’t help but be unsettled by this. No name. No location. No description of the man I jilted. Ugh! I swear if she does this again, I’m sendin’ her to the home. With love, of course.

About the Writer
AyDee has a master’s degree in education, and is tasked with educating high schoolers in the intricacies of chemical reactions and saving the environment.  They give her the key to and full access to the chemical stockroom.  She is a teacher of science by day, evil genius in her spare time, and a smart ass 24/7. 

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The old me is shaking her head right now as the Martha Stewart inside my head is tsk-tsking me.

Yeah. Me. Apathetic. Who knew?

I suppose I should have seen it coming. I mean, I can’t possibly say “no” to anything that might resemble work, I’m starting a non-profit and I write almost every day on my blog. I raise orchids. I have three kids. I have a house, not an apartment, to fill with crap. Hell, I have a Twitter account to follow! Who’s going to rip off pithy tweets like, “My ass smells like cheese” if not me?

(Answer: half of The Twitter.)

And because I’ve only been seeing what’s in front of me (read: my inbox), I’ve stopped seeing most everything else. Of course, this is a sign to me that I probably need to step away from the computer a bit, but alas, I digress.

Because I am hosting at least twenty people at my house this weekend for my daughter’s birthday, I realized that it was time to get my ass (which, I should clarify, does NOT smell like cheese) in gear and clean the shit out of everything. Annnddd… remodel three rooms. And don’t forget that light fixture and smoke detector that need instillation! I mean, what if people come over and don’t see a mess of smoke detectors everywhere? WHAT WILL THEY THINK?

(End hand-wringing.)

The remodeling is nearly complete, but that means the clean-up has just begun. Half an hour ago, I popped into my boys’ room to get rid of some stuff, change the sheets, and generally clean. Most of the people coming to this party are kids, so it makes sense to have a space for kids to, well, PLAY. Especially in areas that aren’t full of toxic chemicals. I figure their parents will thank me for that.

I’m horrified to report to you that I pulled not one but two gigantic bags of garbage out of a bedroom I didn’t even realize was so bad. Like, I’m so horrified that I may actually sit in the Naughty Corner awhile.

Thanks to my previous apathy, I’ll be spending the next three days solid cleaning the rest of my house.

High time to start a speed habit, huh?

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