There Are None So Blind As a Man Doing His Own Laundry

Some people see a glass as half full. Others see the same glass as half empty. Val sees that glass with just a couple of drops left clinging to the bottom. So far empty that a certain blog buddy's wife wouldn't even bother to put a paper towel over the top to save her used water for later.

Having heard almost all there is to tell about the wacky adventures of Val and her Sweet Baboo, Hick...you are privy (heh, heh, I said privy) to the fact that Hick does his own laundry. That's not because he's such a selfless, caring, empathetic husband that he wants to relieve Val of part of the housework load. No. It's because shortly after the marriage vows echoed off the chat dumps of Backroads, Val informed Hick in no uncertain terms that clothing would not be picked up off the bedroom floor for washing, but would only be laundered if it was in the clothes hamper. Hick, being somewhat of a hard-headed, self-nose-biting, face-spiter...declared that he would do his own laundry, then, rather than kowtow to Val and her cuh-RAZY ideas on clothes-washing. Pretty brave talk from a man who used a uniform service for work clothes five days a week.

Flash forward 28 years to the present. No uniform service during retirement. Hick did his laundry Friday night, so he'd have a pair of clean shorts to wear under his Santa pants for Saturday's breakfast with a bunch of pre-schoolers. Let the record show that it IS mid-December, and while the weather has been unseasonable warm this winter, it seems a bit laundry-laggy for Hick to just now notice that he had no clean shorts.

Anyhoo...Hick does his laundry at night, while he's kicked back in his La-Z-Boy watching a Pickers show or a Moonshiner's show or an Off-Grid Building show or those relatives of Jewel in Alaska. He usually folds his laundry on our bed. Perhaps he didn't have the arm strength to turn on the light with his new click switch, or perhaps he was exhausted from a late return from the auction Friday night and put off the folding until early Saturday morning, while I was asleep on his usual laundry surface. In any case, it looks like Hick folded his clothes on the long couch in the living room this time.

No. Val is not psychic. Well...okay...I am...just a little bit. But I had a major clue this time.

I spied a Bounce (Walmart generic version) on the floor Saturday afternoon. In defense of my slovenly home, allow the record to show that the carpet is not discolored, but rather showing different sunlight patterns from the front window, and indentations from the lugs on the soles of Hick's boots.

You might think that Val would be thrilled that Hick does his own laundry. That she'd be hoisting that full glass in a toast to her Sweet Baboo's chore ethic. But no.

"I see there's a Bounce on the floor."

"Huh. Maybe you dropped one."

"Maybe in the laundry room. But I found one in the living room."

"Huh. I must have dropped it when I folded my clothes. I see it now."

"Uh huh."

Let the record show that Hick is not one to take a hint. That Bounce is still there. You don't think I'M going to pick up, do you? I'm busy refilling my glass. Trying to get it to half full.