This is me doing the laundry: 1. I put the clothing in the soapy water. 2. I run the washer. 3. I ignore the buzzer. 4. I read blogs. 5. I go to sleep. 6. I go to work. 7. I come home and think, "Duh. I forgot to take the clothes out of the washer." 8. I run the washer with no soap, but with water, because the clothes are all wrinkly. 9. I ignore the buzzer. 10. I read blogs. Et. Cetera.
Oh, I know, the water, the waste, oh the humanity, I know. Sometimes this goes on every day for a week. Doesn't the soapy water evaporate, then come back to earth as fresh clean rainwater? And the water from loads 2-7 never got soapy anyway. It doesn't matter since I get a free ride from not having kids.
At any rate, I'm quite bad at the laundry. I only do my own laundry, then, not like some unfortunates who are asked to launder, dry, fold and rotate the underwear. That's why if I accidentally happen to launder Gary's clothing I get this horrified shriek of, "You did my laundry!" that reaches a level of outrage as high as the time I posted the nude photos of him.
It makes me feel inadequate as a woman, that's what I'm saying. And don't tell me I'm lucky that I'm not asked to do his underwear. If he said, "What?! You MADE me dinner! No! I make my own dinner!" I'd feel as rejected.