Laundry

This is a very awkward subject for a curmudgeon to address, unless there's a pretty damn good story surrounding it.

In our little cape, there is jee whiz, a laundry. The house being built in the early 40s, the laundry was in the back corner of the basement, where, apparently, laundries were. And, it was a fancy set-up. There was a folding down ironing board so the little woman could iron her husbands underwear the moment they came out of the dryer.

That concept didn't go over so big with my Sainted wife (or, frankly, me - carting laundry down two flights of stairs to then drag it back up the very same two flights seemed to be the design of a sadist).

So when we had some work done in the house, the laundry was moved upstairs.  Genius (mostly because it was my idea). But give a woman some horizontal space and a storeroom is born.

I actually do my own laundry.  This has only a little to do with my wife refusing to touch my "guy" things - it is a matter of efficiency, as it takes her one or two months to get to the stuff that can be washed today. But the things - the many, many things - in the "storeroom" get in the way.  Simple - just throw them on the floor and she might get the message. Might as well sign your sex life away as well. So, I politely compromise.  I know what you're thinking - "compromise" implies something being done by two parties. Boy, do you have stuff to learn.