I can hear it down in the basement, breathing. I am told that I am

crazy for thinking that it is a living thing, but I know better. It is alive and

growing. It is the laundry monster and it brings me to my knees in terror.

My husband doesn’t believe in laundry monsters. Laundry is all

good smells and softness to him. He doesn’t know the pain of the wrenched

back hauling hundred-and-fifty-pound baskets of damp smelly filth into the

dark. The endlessly trying to sort stuff, I mean, where does this shirt go? It

is white on the bottom so it is white, but wait, the trim is dark blue so it’s a

dark, right? It pains me to think of the brain cells wasted. With all the time I

waste trying to keep track of my kids’ clothes I could cure the common cold, or

a least have a clean bathroom.

The minute I was tall enough to reach the washer my mother

insisted I do my own laundry (darn those top loaders). I thought it was the

meanest thing she had ever done to me. I have every intention to follow her lead

to the day. If my little darlings want to wear something for five minutes

and then have it washed, then my little darlings can wash it themselves. I

will have the only eight-year-olds who know the difference between

permanent press and delicate cycles.

The knowledge of “laundry arts” is a secret. You never let on to

anyone you know how to wash clothes or you are destined to do laundry for the

rest of your life. It is like knowing how to type. If you are the president of a

company, and you know how to type, you can forget about getting an

assistant. My husband found out I could wash clothes. Now and forever I am

the “laundry person” in our home.

I have given up on my ever-lovin’ husband ever knowing the first

thing about washing clothes. He is too old to train. If it wasn’t for the fact

that the circuit breaker is in the laundry room, he would not know we even

had one. Oh, when we were first married he pretended to try to do a load

now and then. He used the old “red shirt in the white load” trick to try to stop

me from nagging him about laundry. He forgot I already wore panties. It

was the guys on the job site who admired his pink briefs, not the girls in

office commenting on mine. Once the kids came and I stayed home, it was

hopeless. It was as if the whole nightmare of washing his own clothes had

never happened.

He thinks of laundry like a fairy. Poof! His drawer is full of lovely

clean folded white things. Laundry is good to him. Once he even offered to

put up a clothesline in the back yard so I could hang-dry his clothes. He

loves the smell of line-dried clothing and sheets. All I pictured was slogging

wet heavy baskets of sopping clothes outside. Then I could have the joy

of spending an hour clipping the soggy mess to the line so that a half-hour

later I could run like mad to take them down when a rain squall came through.

He is lucky he is alive. I almost took his head off. Making laundry more

difficult is not on my agenda.

Most people when they win the lottery or get vested in their stock

options talk of hiring a housecleaner. I know my husband would love to

have someone clean our house, even if it is only occasionally. Many people

dream of retiring to a warm sunny location better than Sequim. Me, I just

dream of having enough money so that I can pay someone to do laundry for

me. Maybe even hang it outside on the line. I kind of like that summer-fresh

smell, if I do not have to do it. I guess that is why we had kids. Time to teach

them how to tame the laundry monster.

Kate Russell lives between Carnation and Duvall. You

can reach her via e-mail at Katemo1@msn.com.