Sunday regurgitation: Home is where the heart is. Or the laundry. Whichever

For those of you wondering why Sunday is throwing up, fear not. Sunday Regurgitation occurs every Sunday, when I link a prior post of mine, because I am trapped under something heavy and am unable to write anything original or riveting. Hopefully someone will notice I’m missing, remove whatever is suffocating me and I’ll be back to normal by tomorrow. But just in case you never hear from me again … think of me fondly.

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If all has gone according to plan, we are currently on a plane right now, flying home after spending almost a week in San Francisco. Hopefully we’ve had an awesome time, we’re all still talking to each other, I was able to smuggle the Golden Gate Bridge into my carry on, my camera worked and I did not gain 53 pounds.

If all has not gone according to plan, I’ve gained 54 pounds, the kids are yelling each other to death, my camera is AWOL and my lovely bridge triggered the metal detector at airport security, causing us to miss our flight because Homeland Security doesn’t understand my penchant for souvenirs and thusly have a few hundred questions for me. I just hope the strip search is everything it’s talked up to be. I’ll let you know.

I don’t have any story relating to this Sunday regurgitation post like I usually do because I’ve been busy getting my name on the no-fly list so that I can finally say to Nate I CANNOT POSSIBLY FLY and he’ll have no choice but to believe me because for once, I have a reason other than being allergic to restricted leg room and the sharing of armrests with complete strangers.

So for today, I brought up my blog archives, closed my eyes, turned myself around ten times and the first post I was able to read without throwing up was the winner.

And the winner was … Peach Blossom Mist, which is totally appropriate considering the mountains of dirty laundry we’re bringing home with us.

Happy Sunday!

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Peach Blossom Mist

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I had planned 736 things to do today and not one of them is going to get done because I’ve already given up and it’s only 8:00 a.m.

Here is my washing machine. And as much as I would like to just toss these things into my dryer with a Bounce sheet and be done with it, I can’t. They’ve been sitting in my washing machine for approximately three days now and while you can’t tell from the safety of your home, in my home the sour stench emanating from my washer is about to make my eyes bleed. So I’m going to have to rewash them in blazing hot water with bleach and/or vinegar at least twice before they make it to the dryer. Can you tell this is a well trodden path for me? I am physically incapable of remembering to switch loads upon hearing the buzzer, in much the same way Nate is physically incapable of telling me he’s got something planned until five seconds before it happens. It’s just not in our DNA. And if I had an inkling of pride, I would have photoshopped that dirt ring right out of this photo but my pride jumped ship about twenty-five pounds ago so there you have it.

And once I do rewash that load, these are waiting for me.

Just looking at them sucks my will to live.

Maybe I’d feel happier about my predicament if I actually enjoyed being in my laundry room. Maybe deep down I subconsciously try to avoid my laundry room as much as possible because when it comes right down to it, I just don’t like it in there. When we bought this house, I was overjoyed that I was finally going to have a first floor laundry room. I had big plans for that room, plans that included gleaming white shelves, lace curtains, satellite radio and lots of wicker hand baskets. But those dreams took the express line straight to hell in one of those baskets because the key word here is “had.” As in, past tense. As in, I was delusional.

Notice the color of the walls? They’re a pale lilac, if you can’t tell. I hate them. Hate them with a deep, raging passion I usually reserve for bullies and those occasions when TiVo stops recording one minute before Lost actually ends.

I wanted a soft, pale peach for my laundry room. It was called Peach Blossom Mist and it gave me warm fuzzies and I loved it and it loved me. When I suggested it to Nate, he had to take what some refer to as “a moment” when he became very quiet and still for several minutes. When he came to, he calmly told me that Peach Blossom Mist did not match the flooring he had just spent all day installing. When I responded with something along the line of “who cares?” Nate had the closest thing to a seizure without actually having a seizure and from that, I got the general impression that LAUNDRY ROOM WALLS MUST MATCH LAUNDRY ROOM FLOORS, OR ELSE NOTHING WILL MAKE SENSE AND IS IT TOO MUCH TO ASK FOR SOMETHING, ANYTHING, TO MAKE SENSE IN THIS GOD FORSAKEN WORLD WE LIVE IN?

I’ve learned to pick and choose my battles and thus far, I’ve managed to keep my sanity at a level hovering just above nervous breakdown so I didn’t push it. I told myself that it was just a laundry room after all and nobody other than myself was going to spend any quality time in there so was it really that big of an issue that a good cry and Dove chocolate couldn’t cure? So I caved, otherwise known in the world of marital bliss as “compromised.” Before I knew it, Light Lilac or Pale Purple or whatever the hell you want to call it adorned my walls and my laundry room was declared “done.” It’s now 13,927 loads of laundry later and despite some heavy duty Dove gorging, I’m just not feeling the love.

Every time I am in that room, trying to maneuver among the swarm of dirty underwear and wet towels, I am immediately struck by the fact that I can’t even see the 2 foot by 4 foot section of flooring that shattered my dreams because of the amount of stuff, otherwise known as crap, covering it and I get an annoying little tick in my left eye. And it occurs to me amidst flurries of lint flying about my head and up my nose that if I could have foreseen the sheer number of hours I was going to spend in this very room prying apart sticky, sweaty, smelly socks from one another ad nauseam, I would have fought a whole lot harder for Peach Blossom Mist. And a hazmat suit.

I think we need to revisit this room, Nate. I think you know me well enough to realize I’m not above holding your comfy Fruit of the Looms hostage and the way I figure, you are the last person on the face of this planet to consider going commando so I think I’ve got some pretty good leverage.

I get my Peach Blossom Mist, Frank and Beans get to stay ensconced in the 100% cotton comfort to which they’ve grown accustomed and all is right with the world.

And then maybe we can discuss a possible do-over of my office? Nate?

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