Saturday, Wil and I took a bunch of his laundry down to the laundry mat, to get it all done at once. A lot of the clothes had not seen the light of day since summer began. Initially, Wil thought to instruct me on the proper way to do laundry, and that was just to stuff everything into washers, willy nilly, so that everything would come out a nice uniform color. A nice theory, but the one area of housework I come close to excelling at is laundry, and my shocked dismay at his laundry procedure had him admitting he did a sort of lightist/darkish separation thing.

We fit all the wet clothes into two big dryers, and we each took the contents of one to fold, when the clothes were dry. I then took every tshirt he folded and refolded it properly. That is to say, in such a manner that they are about the same size when folded and fit into a drawer nicely. (As long as it’s flat, I can fold it nicely. Fitted sheets? Forget about it, I try to make a nicely shaped, flattish wad out of ’em. )

When we got home, I started to hang up the buttoned shirts and some of pants on the hangers we had bought at Linens n’ Things. His new place had no hangers. Now, those of you who know me, who’ve been to my house, are probably starting to freak out a bit at this point of the story. So was I.

“Look… I’m currently giving you an impression of me that is entirely inaccurate. This is not me. I don’t do this. I do laundry, but my clothes live, nicely folded in the beginning, at the end of my couch because my dresser is broken. Don’t get used to this domestic shit. I’m just trying to be nice or helpful or something dumb like that.”

You’ll be happy to know that I did not put the nicely folded clothes away, but sorta stacked them on the top of the dresser, the floor, or the coffee table. I haven’t completely lost my mind.