The Cold Has...

- caused the laundry pile to take over the bedroom because I cannot bring myself to do laundry in these temperatures. Good thing it's Friday because I am officially out of socks.

- made me look like and idiot starting my car. PJs, slippers, Michael's huge coat and full-on work hair and makeup is quite the look.

- given me a severe case of Morning Brain. Driving to work I thought to myself, "Gee, my windshield is dirty. I should clean it." It occurred to me only as the the wiper fluid was hitting my windshield that, huh, it's below freezing. And, oh yeah, the wiper fluid is freezing to my windshield.

- made me (yes, it's the cold's fault) get two soy chai lattes in two days.

- made it necessary to wear gloves.

- one of which is now covered in soy chai latte that spilled as I was crossing the street.

- made by boss wear jeans. To work. I'm shocked!

- made me wear a (cute) hat which gave me (not so cute) static hair.

Oh, winter. Boo you.

Why I Hate Doing Laundry

A photo essay:

So, I hate doing laundry. Hate. It. With a passion. There are many reasons I hate doing laundry, which include the carrying, the sorting, the folding and the putting away. Wait, isn't that everything that is involved in doing laundry? Oh yeah, that's right. I hate it all.

I am not proud to admit this, but we kind of let the pile grow a little too long. Or rather, a little too high. So I think to myself, wouldn't it be easier to carry if I put it in the upright basket?

Oh, God. I think it just multiplied. Or tripled. Is that seriously all our laundry? Kill me now.

You might think that would be the worst of it. But you would think wrong. Because when your house was built in 1900, the luxury of a laundry room does not exist. Oh no. The washer and dryer? They're in the basement. How do you get to the basement? You go outside. And open the bulkhead and walk down the most treacherous stairs ever carrying the above monstrosity.

OK. Made it down without falling or bruising my shin. Perhaps the task will look easier once I've sorted the clothes.

No. It does not. And yes, I have literally just aired my dirty laundry in front of the world.

(Hours later) This is all that remains of my entire afternoon of laundry. And I know where Michael's t-shirts go. I just can't bring myself to deal with one more piece of laundry.

Ugh. That was awful. Have I mentioned I hate doing laundry?

Pants. Uncomfy.

Michael did the laundry the other day. And as much as I appreciate the fact that he washed my clothes, he put everything in the dryer. Every.Thing.

So now my super cute Limited copped ankle pants are just a touch too tight. I thought they would loosen up during the day and everything was going well until I ate lunch.
Now that my stomach has expanded after shoving the last of the peach in my face (mmmmmm peach) I'm very uncomfortable. If I wasn't at work I would totally unbutton my pants.

So lesson learned. I should actually utilize the pretty pink double laundry basket (which Michael as banished to the basement) and seperate my clothes into "Dry" and "Don't Dry." Preferably with BIG signs distinguishing the two. That way I can be assured he won't shrink any more of my pants.

I casually mentioned to him that even though I really appreciated him doing the laundry, perhaps from now on any pants other than jeans should be automatically hung up. He was receptive and I think he got it. I don't want to push it too far. I mean, who doesn't like having their laundry done?

I guess it's inevitable really. I bug him to do more around the house. Dishes, vacuuming, laundry. (This is totally what my mother complained about for years.) And he finally does it (without being asked!) and I get small pants.

Maybe I can "accidently" use some of his fire department tee-shirts as cleaning rags. :)

UPDATE: I just unbuttoned my pants and pulled my shirt over the top. Heaven.