Light My Fire

I should know better, but I'm like one of those head trauma victims who have no access to short term memory; either that or I'm in the early stages of alzheimer's. What was I talking about? Oh yeah. Let me explain what I mean. I am pea-soup green with envy at those couples who divide household responsibilities. One dad was telling me that his wife cooks, he cleans up; she prepares lunches, he does bath-time; she reads to the kids, he folds laundry. Then there are those moms whose houses are spotless because every Saturday the house is divided in half and they clean one half while their husbands clean the other. As if that's not bad enough, every night as I clear away the dishes from the meal I have cooked I get to watch as my neighbor's husband cleans the dishes, mops the floor, and if I'm seeing things clearly, it appears that he's re-organizing the pantry. (Listen, if there's no curtains on the windows you're inviting people to spy!) What I'm trying to say is that I think that I'm in love with my neighbors husband--well, in love with his cleaning initiative.

So, imagine how turned on I was one night two months ago when my husband told me that he was going to do the laundry. (If he added that he would also bathe the kids I think I would have had an orgasm!!!) The next day when I looked around for the laundry he looked at me in surprise and said that it was in the washing machine--where else would it be? If I hadn't been rendered speechless I would have explained that the little laundry fairies who come into people's houses and take the wash out of the washing machine and put it into the dryer is a myth. Instead I went to unload the washer only to find strings of shredded wires strangulating the jeans, tee-shirts, socks, underwear. "What the...???" And then I saw that familiar ear piece and I knew that I was looking at the remnants of my beloved IPOD. You have to understand, my IPOD keeps me eternally young and happy. When I want to forget that I'm a mother, wife, overstressed crazy person I put those ear plugs into my ears and get an infusion of David Cassidy, Roger Daltrey, Elvis Costello and suddenly, every bit of stress melts away. So when I saw my IPOD in shreds I immediately blamed it on "Mr. Helpful" also known as the man I married. He countered my accusations by scolding me for not taking it out of my pocket before putting my jeans in the laundry. I reached deep inside myself to resurrect my inner petulant teenager, stormed up to my room, and slammed the door shut!

All that brings me to last night when he said he was going to help me and throw in a load of wash. Hesitatingly, I managed an unconvincing, "Great..." It took about 2 minutes for him to summon me to the basement. I knew it couldn't be good news, so I slowly made my way down the stairs only to see him staring at the washing machine as smoke was pouring out of it while the wash cycle sputtered in distress. He asked me, seriously, did this seem normal to me? Now, I don't have the firefighting training or years of firefighting experience that he has under his belt; nor was I, like him, a fire chief, but I was pretty certain that the washing machine was on fire. When I gave him my verdict, he slowly leaned closer to the machine, sniffed twice, and told me that he thought I was right. However, he did not want to call the fire department because he didn't want to be embarrassed. I replied that I agreed it would be better to burn with dignity than to have the fire department come and check it out.

Instead, he unplugged the washer, took me in his arms and said it was a good thing he did the laundry or else God knows what could have happened if I had thrown the wash in and walked away. "Well," I thought to myself, "We'd have clean laundry."