I should be folding the the nine load laundry explosion on my bed, but, instead, I'm polishing off a box of Jordan Almonds. The last time I overdosed on Jordan Almonds, I busted my grandma-like molar and had to have it replaced with an eight hundred dollar crown. I'm now chewing them on the opposite side of my mouth and proceeding with caution.
In case you're wondering, my hatred for folding laundry stems from the hot summer days when Mi Madre would send me to the sewing room to fold Mt. Fuji. I would fold, sweat, and listen to Siouxie and the Banshees until sundown. This was the only way I'd be allowed to spend my nights patrolling the neighborhood with my neighborhood gang.
But our current laundry situation is dire. My homgurl has been borrowing my athletic underwear because she fears digging in the mountain, and my boys have been wearing flip-flops instead of asking if there are any clean socks. They want to avoid hearing me rant: "Do you think I was born to fold laundry?" and, "If you can't find your jeans, wear your church pants."
When will it occur to them that the only solution to this laundry situation is to pop on the iPod and just start folding? Never. Some of us never get it.