Laundry

My wonderful hubby and I rarely argue, well, we rarely have any of those hot-tempered, mean spirited type of arguments, thankfully due to the fact I did plenty of that in my younger days and now don't see the point. Well, last night we had a small misunderstanding about the laundry.

Let me give you a little background on my sweet man. He's loving, generous, considerate, hard-working, funny (very important) and just a really swell guy (oh no, Georgina, you didn't say swell!!). He has his quirks, well, who the hell doesn't, but his are at times a bit on the "your driving me crazy," type. He's a perfectionist in certain aspects, not all aspects, you should see his desk in our office...looks like someone threw a hand grenade on it. I thought that if he removed his old computer, that has been lying in a dormant stage for years, he could organize it better, but then I thought that might not work either, just give him more room to spread his paper chaos. And our dining room table, actually it belongs to my oldest son, Joel, but when he moved to Dallas he didn't want to store it, so he lent it to me till he was settled...still waiting and that was 3 years ago! Anyway, "his side" of the table is looking like his desk....paper everywhere...magazines, mail outs, credit card forms, etc. you get the drift. I have never seen his office at his place of employment, but I can assure you it's a show case, that's different, right?

Now let's move on to his closet and dresser drawers...they're so organized, you have to just take it in...it's awesome!! Everything is in geometric perfection, and I venture to say, a bit algebraic too...I know there's a quadratic equation lurking in there somewhere!!! I'm not "allowed" to fold his handkerchiefs since I don't know how....apparently rocket science! His underwear has to be folded and put away a certain way as are his socks. I myself had to "relearn" how to fold my own chonies (panties) under his direction, again, rocket science! I started calling him "Mr. Fifiruchi" (pronounced, "feefeeroochee"...Spanish spelling is easier and uses less letters, hence the spelling) which is a word I've been using since I was a child. I don't know where it came from or maybe my father used it or I corrupted the original word or phrase, "Ay Fuchi-la-caca" meaning, "Oh, la-dee-da." My father's phrase, not mine, but it works. The last time he used that phrase we were in Ruidoso, NM at a very hoity toity eatery in the Inn of the Mountain Gods, a Mescalero Navajo hotel and gambling joint. The waiter was just a bit too much into the evening specials and as he walked away, my Dad looked at me and said, "Ay, fuchi-la-caca!" Don't you hate it when white wine comes dribbling out your nose while your stifling your laughter?

So we now enter this past evening. He began complaining that I don't help with the laundry and he's right, I don't. The reason being is that when I first moved into his house, before we got married, I did the laundry. It went from mine and my son's to his and his daughter too. No biggie. I did laundry for a family of 5 for many years, so the extra clothes weren't a big deal. However, he began redoing some of his and his daughters and I asked him why and his reply was, "Well, honey, you're not doing it right." Not doing it right??? Ok, let's see, colours with colours, whites with whites, broken down to delicate, permanent press and bleach those nasty tidy whities with hot water, right? According to my love, NO!!! There's a system and I'm blissfully ravaged from the intelligence of Vern laundry. So, did he teach me the ways of Vern laundry, no, he just decided to do it himself. Now if I were a younger woman, I'd be furious...hey, that's challenging my intelligence!!! But now that I'm a fluffy and happy post menopausal lady, I have no objections to him doing it. After all, according to our cleaning lady, I married into her, she said he's been doing the laundry since she started working for him, back with wife #2, I'm wife #4. So this is his M.O...he likes the power of the laundry, so I happily have adhered to his wishes and stay out of it until last night. The more frustrated he became, the more I laughed...I thought he was kidding. I told him that he always did the laundry, long before I came into his life and that I was incapable of doing it right, according to him, hey I know when I've been defeated, but he insisted I now learn the ways of Vern laundry....you can teach an old dog new tricks, but this old dog prefers not to learn that particular one. I found I was getting a bit hot under the bra and decided it was time to leave the living room for the bedroom...fighting over dirty laundry was just too much to take at 10 p.m. As I left, I told him I was amazed that I, a somewhat intelligent woman or whatever child-bearing and menopause left of my brain, and a college graduate plus years of laundry experience under the belt, was going to fight over such a stupid thing!!! Hey, I like a good challenge, but laundry???

I went to bed, head hung low, I have failed miserably, I'm an unfit laundress. So today, I'm making up for it by doing what I do best, other than my art work, I plan to make a wonderful meal, something I don't do very often. Hopefully, I'll make him all happy again and take his mind off the laundry. However, I'm going to make sure that I get plenty of my homemade barbecue sauce all over my apron and my shirt. That ought to bring a smile to his face...the idea of removing all those dark, spicy, sticky brown smudges off my delicates...now there's a challenge! And I helped!!! Peace out.