I’ve never been keen on laundry. When presented with living arrangements that required me to leave my apartment and carry around buckets of quarters to wash and dry clothes, entire months would pass between loads. Now I have the luxury of not only having laundry facilities in my home but a laundress to boot. I never thought I would be keen on the idea of someone else washing my unmentionables but we’re related so it’s a comfortable arrangement. Yes I’m 32 and yes my mom still does my laundry. I wouldn’t go so far as to say she does it because she is one of those twisted individuals who enjoys washing clothes, especially when she comes in contact with one of my sweaty sports bras, but rather it would cause her tremendous emotional turmoil to stand idly by while my dirty clothes stage a stealthy takeover of my life.
She washes, she dries, she even folds or hangs depending on the garment but she does not put away. Even she has her limits. Apparently it’s acceptable for clothes can pile up as long as they’re clean and neatly stacked on a designated chair because even though a fair amount of the laundering process is completed without me having to lift a finger, it still takes ages for me to put anything away. My disregard for the tiniest of housekeeping chores and general laziness has resulted in two things, one tragic and one insanely comical.
Tragic because Tui has an insatiable taste for beer and bras. Crack open a can and I’ll be damned if Tui doesn’t come along and knock it over just to lap up the mess and indulge his hankering for Busch Light. When there is a will, there is a way. Can’t say that I blame him; I’d probably resort to the same tactics if I wasn’t blessed with the evolutionary miracle that is the opposable thumb; however I am now hyper-vigilant with my open containers. Sharing is not my forté.
You would think I would enlist the same watchfulness over my bras since Tui is equally hell-bent on devouring them as he is beer. To date, I’ve had to lay to rest a total of five or by my estimate $260. I’m tempted to send his breeder a bill but really this could all be avoided if I would just put away my damn laundry. Maybe I’ll learn after he shreds a sixth or perhaps this is just my passive way of embracing the feminist ideals of the 60’s.
Either way, my inability to act responsibly and put away clean laundry instead of constantly dressing myself from a heap of garments also caused Rinn to take notice of the brassiere grabbing one from the stack, holding it up to himself asking “will I wear these one day?” I responded with a “lucky for you, no” and being the curious little creature he is he asked “why?” What ensued was a lengthy lecture about how under average circumstances only girls need to wear bras to support their breasts and boys will have what is traditionally referred to as pecs. Apparently this answer was unsatisfactory because he lifted up his shirt, pointed to his nipples and exclaimed “then what are these?”
“Nipples Rinn, everyone has nipples.”
Perhaps I should work on my enunciation because he responded “nickels? Well I like my nickels.” I would normally prefer that Rinn be properly educated even if the topic is a tad awkward but in this instance I ended the conversation letting Rinn go forth into the world thinking his nipples are “nickels.” It’s comical and if he ever brings up the matter in public I’ll be at ease knowing that strangers will think he’s speaking adoringly about coins; so long as he doesn’t perform a proper demonstration and expose himself.
Also I'm glad he so revers his "nickels" since he was blessed with three. Early on his pediatrician assured me that it's a quick procedure should we opt to remove it due to a bout with self consciousness but in his experience "women really dig third nipples." Thanks doc, because the anxiety of him being a heart throb doesn't plague me enough, now I have to worry about his accessory nipple being a turn on to trollops and harlots. Can you say "home schooling?"