By Staff
Leada Gore, Editor
There is a simple division of duties in our house. Greg takes care of yard work, the cars and all insects, whether indoors or out. I handle the inside of the house, including the cooking, cleaning, etc. etc.
I realize he got the better part of this deal, as the yard and the cars need only occasional attention while there's always something that needs to be done inside the house.
The Mason-Dixon Line of our relationship is laundry. It's the place where Greg's tasks and mine meet, simply because I have drawn the line in the detergent over what I will or won't do.
I handle the washing and drying of most laundry. I put up my clothes, household items such as towels and sheets and then I stop. There is no reason Greg cannot put up his own clothes.
In my mind, you wash clothes, dry them, fold them and then put them away. In Greg's mind, you wash clothes, dry them, pile them up and then either fish your favorite shirt out of a pile or just go buy new socks because you don't feel like looking for the old ones.
This system has worked for Greg for years, especially through his bachelor years when he had to fend for himself. It's also led to Greg's ownership, as my mother said after helping me with the wash, of more socks than she had ever seen in her life. I tried to explain the "pile up old, just buy new" concept, but I don't think she got it.
I have relegated our guest bedroom as Greg's laundry repository. I wander in there occasionally, just to make a laundry deposit or to make sure the dog hasn't drowned in the pile of shirts.
I do make suggestions (also known as nagging) to Greg that he might want to put up his clothes. He does make an effort occasionally, at least as much as walking in the room with clothes hangers in your hand can be called an effort.
And while I try to ignore it, there are times I just can't. The pile of clothes gets to be too much and I break down and put some up myself. This is what happened when Greg was out Sunday afternoon, when I ventured into No Man's Land (literally) and filled a clothes basket up with shirts. I bent down to pick it up and – snap – something went awry in my lower back. I howled in pain and limped my way to the living room and eased my way down on the sofa. I was still almost immobile by the time Greg came home.
"What happened to you?" he asked.
"I was trying to put up your laundry and I hurt my back," I whimpered.
He looked at me thoughtfully.
"See why I don't do it?" he said. "Putting up laundry is bad for your health."