I'd make a terrible housewife.
I can't cook; I survive on frozen waffles, frozen pizzas, frozen vegetables that I detest but only buy because it makes me feel better about myself knowing that I could totally eat them at any moment of my choosing -- really, whatever is 5-for-$10 in the frozen food aisle that week.
I can't sew or stitch -- although I'm pretty incredible at cutting sleeves off of T-shirts. It's an organic gift for Kentuckians, a skill naturally developed somewhere around the time you learn how to drive a four-wheeler and learn that there's a huge difference between a kitty cat and a polecat -- usually just before your fifth birthday. But if I needed to reattach the sleeves to that shirt, thread and a needle would do me no good. Honestly, I'd probably just reach for a stapler.
And I certainly can't do laundry worth a lick. I wish I was kidding.
I think I'm just a bit daunted by the unreasonable complexity with laundry. Some clothes must be washed in hot water and dried with a low, tumble dry. Some clothes insist on being washed with "like colors" in cold water on a gentle cycle and dried with medium heat for only a few minutes. Some clothes can't handle any heat. Some clothes require dry cleaning, whatever that is. Some clothes must be washed inside out, while others can only rub against their own kind. (So prejudiced.)
I know a lot of people who run laundry like it's an art form. They intimately know and respect their laundry's cyclic demands. They build different piles, they run different water temperatures, they dry with machines and hangers and racks. They segregate -- sorry, separate -- by colors, fearful of the intermingling of the blacks, whites, and... hot pinks. (So, so prejudiced.)
I envy those people. I worry for their social lives, but I envy those people. Their trends and tips are admirable, but I decline to implement them in my own life. Instead, week after week, I dump the entire basket into the washer. Same settings: normal cycle, cold water. Because I'm a normal guy who enjoys some refreshing, cold water. Even though cold water probably couldn't take the marinara sauce off the kitchen countertop, much less from within my dress shirt's polyester fabric.
Controlling your laundry is tough. It's rolling around, flipping and flopping inside those machines, and all you can do is stand helplessly, hoping for the best. Have you ever actually tried to shrink clothes? It never works. Maybe you bought some clothes that are too baggy or one size too large. Or maybe you finally stopped buying your weekly groceries from Costco and ended up shedding a few pounds -- hey, good job! Either way, those clothes just need a little shrinkage. Unfortunately, it appears the only clothes that actually shrink are the ones you like just the way they are. The excellently aged T-shirt you can’t part ways with, the low-rise boot jeans that cost $160 at the outlet mall, the black pleather club pants that perfectly hug the buttocks with each pelvic thrust to the club remix of the other club remix of that Kylie Minogue song you love -- these are always the clothes that will shrink at the first five-degree upward rise in temperature. But those XXL sweatpants aren't shriveling anytime soon, buddy. Better hope they have a reliable drawstring.
Yep, I'm pretty much useless on the domestic scene. Unless I have a Swiffer pad in hand. Seriously, I will Swiffer circles around you. Dust-free circles.
