Friday, March 5, 2010
The footballer's wife
What is that unholy, testosterone-reeking mess on the laundry room floor?!
I shall tell you. My Husband came home from a football match (yes fellow Americans, I'm talking about soccer here, but in Norway, at least among my Husband and his family that is a blasphemous word, so it must be referred to only as by it's true name, lol.) he had along with his best friend and younger brother against a neighboring club. It was a tie, nothing spectacular there. But I noticed he was sporting that nervous smile when he walked in the door all sweaty and tired. Naturally, I asked him what was going on. The reply:
"Oh nothing really...um, it's just that, um, it's my turn for laundry duty this week. It's on a rotating schedule with all the players in the club."
I raised an eyebrow at this, mostly because, my Husband doesn't do laundry. I don't even think he knows how to use the machine in this house, and aside from careful instructions by me, only ever pressed the fill button on the washer in our apartment in Tacoma. Why? Because I'd rather do it myself and know it's done just so, then let him meddle with it. The result: the man hasn't done more than throwing his dirty clothes in the hamper, then putting a freshly laundered stack back and away in his drawers in almost three years...since we've been dating, literally.
"It's your turn for laundry duty." I recounted slowly. He nodded. "So really then, it's my turn to do laundry." I concluded.
He just smiled and said; "But honey, I love you!"
So, this morning I pulled out a gigantic -we're talking I could have climbed in it with both our dogs and been comfortable if it wasn't for the smell- duffel bag from the corner of the laundry room where it was left after the menfolk returned from their match last night. I opened it...
and should have been advised prior to that opening to bring my gasmask.
Supposedly the club's laundry gets done after every match, or on a weekly basis. This laundry, smelled like it hadn't been washed since 2006. Cigarette smoke, sweat, and boy's-feet smell is now literally permeating the wallpaper in our laundry room.
If this isn't spousal love at it's finest, I don't know what is. While Harald is off at work, I'm here, elbow deep in man-laundry.
I've decided to tackle this chore in two loads, I'm figuring it might make for maximum clean experience. I just hope I'm right. The club's colors are royal blue and bright red with white trim. Not pictured in the battle-shot above is the blue load, that's already in the washer. That blue load, was a bit bigger than the red one, just to give you an idea, that red pile is almost knee-high on me. And my dogs stretched their noses over the laundry room threshold, sniffed, then turned tail and ran. No joke. It's bad. I'm tempted to sprinkle a little baking soda in the bag itself, or maybe even try to wash it because trust me, it's the main culprit of the stink here. It just seems wrong to put all that fresh, folded, clean laundry in a bag that smells like that. Something must be done.
All I know is: the Hubs owes me a knockout date after this.