Buns of Steel?

Laundry.  Out of Sight. Out of mind...until someone runs out of underwear.


My laundry room is two floors down from any of our closets. Surely, you can see the predicament already. 


I live in an old house in New Jersey, and by old I mean, young, vibrant, in the best years of her life.  She's 38. I'm 35, so I go easy on that old and falling apart stuff.  For the Northeast, it's a relatively new home. Heck, the first school in our town was built in the 1800s.  But to most of my friends living in their just built, shiny new appliance, new car smelling homes, mine is one wind advisory away from a pile of lumber.


So when the baskets are full of clothes, I throw gently carry them down the stairs.  A steep, treacherous, Mt. Everest moutain of stairs.  Once down to the main floor, I catch my breath and drag slowly walk around to the next set of stairs. 

(yes, blue carpet, just like the walls, carpet, curtains, EVERYTHING! renting is awesome.)

 Again, steep and exhausting, they pose their own hazard...these are the steps leading to the basement and some layer of hell in Dante's Inferno, also known as, the twins' playroom. I never know what challenges await me on these steps. It's like my own version of ABC's show Wipeout. Often boardgames, at least two partially assembled Lego sets, and a sleep buddy from the night before. Oh, did I mention that often the Hubs (and I) will just throw things down the stairs? (random toys, blankets, clothes). Always a fun time on these stairs. Usually, I stop to Tebow and thank God for my safe passage down the stairs without breaking my neck.

(this is what I would call a light day)

It's a full basement, one part finished, one not.  Want to wager where the washer and dryer are?  Oh yeah, in the dungeon.  'Cause isn't that where all the torture goes down in a castle? (And goodness knows I live in a castle with Princess Lola.)

(camera angle to avoid actual piles of laundry)

I start a load of laundry, head back upstairs for some other torture....cooking, cleaning, finding out that no one has read my blog today. But the real kicker is that I am easily distracted, so I sometimes forget that I even started laundry. Mostly, it's because it's so rare that I do it.  And I have been known to forget. FOR. DAYS. That is a smell that Tide can't erase.  Then, I have to start all over.


A few weeks days hours later when all the clothes are washed and dried, I have to carry them all back upstairs to fold and put away.  I'm almost embarrassed to say that I just shove them all into the same laundry basket and begin my ascent into the Alps.  Almost. 


Before you even ask:
1. No I don't fold them downstairs because it's creepy back there.
2. I can't monitor two 6 year olds running around the house with who knows what.
3. Above mentioned 6 year olds sound like the floor is going to cave in on top of me.
4. There is no internet connection to keep up with FB or my blogs in the basement.


Going up the stairs is harder than down. When you are eye level with step 4 or 5, that's steep!  By the time I climb the first set and head around to the second, visions of Mt. Everest and those lucky bastards with the oxygen spring to mind.  If I am lucky enough to make it back to the top without passing out or a trip to the ER for a mild heart attack, I feel that folding and putting away the laundry can wait until I've had a shot of tequila Dr. Pepper and a nap.


If you do the math, that's 1-2 outfits, one pair of socks, one pair of underwear, and at least one towel per day per person, it comes out to roughly WAY TOO MUCH FREAKING LAUNDRY to be two floors down.  I really thought by the time we are stationed at another base, that I would have buns of steel from all the loads of laundry and steps it takes to get it accomplished each week.  But in reality I know, that would require me to actually do the laundry and remember that I even started it.


Disclaimer:  The Hubs would like it noted for the record that I rarely ever carry the clothes up the moutain(s).  (This is true when he is home, and I can convince him with my girlish charm and my best Scarlett O'Hara that "fiddle-dee-dee this basket of clothes is just too heavy for the likes of little  ole me, if only I had some big strong man to help carry this upstairs..." Don't worry, he rolls his eyes, too, but he does carry it up for me anyway.  But I don't think it has anything to do with chivalry.  Most likely he's afraid that I'll fall and break something, and then he'll have to do a lot more than carry up a basket or two. You know, either way, I'll take it.)