As it turns out, Emily is rather useless when it comes to helping me pack away the kids’ washing. I put her down on the bed, throw out the washing, go pack a few pairs of pants away in Jessica’s cupboard, and on my return I find the little snugglebunny fast asleep, having pulled a nice comfortable pink bath towel over herself for the cuddles.
So not quite daddy’s little helper just yet.
I had to have a quiet snigger to myself the other evening, when Chantelle stomped into the study and muttered at how annoyed she was with herself. You see, she had earlier put in a load of Jessie’s washing (we always do her washing separate from ours), and for some inexplicable reason had decided that it would be perfectly safe to put an old red tracksuit pants that Jessie got from somewhere in with the rest of the baby washing.
Let’s just say it is a good thing that our little baby girl looks good in pink! ;)
Okay, it is fair to say with all this blog coverage regarding my premature, newborn daughter fighting away in the NICU, not much time has been giving to the other, more furry scallywag Country Mews Lotter Clan members, namely Achilles and Olympus.
So here’s the update then.
For long have I laughed at puny Chantelle who, although washes her dishes in super heated temperatures that no normal human should be able to withstand, does so wearing ridiculous looking bright blue rubber gardening gloves. (Well, I call them gardening gloves because that is what my parents used for all the years to weed their garden in).
However, today is marked as a tragic day in the life of the awesomeness that is Craig, considering the fact that I finally decided to tackle the cooking pots, pans and generally neglected cooking utensils that have been lying dirty in the sink for well over a week now. As you can imagine, the leftovers of our wonderful waterblommetjie stew had encrusted and hardened to a consistency like that of diamond, meaning that desperate measures would have to be employed to get the pot clean.
And those desperate measures?
Well nothing short of washing them in super heated temperatures that no normal human should be able to withstand.
Which worked by the way – but I had to don those very blue rubber gloves that I so mock.
And by the pictures as you can tell, I must have looked pretty silly to anyone looking in through our kitchen window this afternoon…
(And that concludes my silly post for the day. You’ll note my skilful use of my right hand which is operating the camera while my left hand appears to be doing something in focus. Magic I tell you. Oh, and Chantelle laughed when she heard of my blue glove adventure, just in case you were wondering! :P)
I think my mom would probably have killed me had I still been living with her and generating the huge amount of laundry that I currently come up with on a daily basis. As it is, I think Chantelle could quite possibly be hating it as well – though luckily in our house it’s basically the person who is home or gets home first that needs to see to the laundry, meaning its pretty much equal opportunity at the moment.
But I am serious but this seemingly never ending pile of dirty washing that seems intent on taking over our bedroom when we take our eyes off the washing basket for even just a minute.
Ever since increasing my gym routine to mornings and lunch (and sometimes even after work as well), the number of sweaty, stinky t-shirts, underpants and socks just never seem to stop coming in, and when combined with a sweaty dogi twice a week and the usual daily work golf shirt and underpants… well you get the picture.
The number of items needing a wash has increased so drastically that I’ve even had to go out and buy a second Venus clothes hanger in order to pin everything up and I swear if I had the space, a large LG clothesdryer would already be sitting there in all of its glory. (Or perhaps I should just invest in one of those washing machine/dryer combo units?)
Anyway, the point of this all is that had I still been living with Mom I’m sure she’d have killed me by now – or simply given up! :)
(P.S. It’s been two weeks now and my stomach has still NOT recovered from that stomach bug that struck me down last Monday! Icky. Oh, and Christmas trees are going for 75% off at Woolworths – we’ll hopefully get one today or at least by the end of the week! Better late than never I say! :P)
I didn’t know that knee high stockings are JUST as dangerous as large pythons!
It’s the weirdest thing. Every time I do the washing and Chantelle has her stockings in the wash, I open the machine up to hang the washing up and without fail, at least one of my socks are missing.
And every time that missing sock turns up…
…inside a bloody stocking!
Those things must be moerse hungry, that’s all I can say. Shame, and I always wondered where lost socks went – turns out they were never lost… only devoured!
Seems that Tracker advert from a while ago was wrong after all.
Now I have always been a bit of a domesticated guy, even living as a bachelor my clothes were always neatly ironed and my dishes were always done. Admittedly, I am not all that great when it comes to cleaning, usually adopting the ‘vacuum the centre of the floor’ approach, but when it comes to neatness and things being on their place, then I am most definitely your man.
Of course, now living with Chantelle means that we have to inevitably take equal turns in doing the chores, though frequently it ends up with her doing the actual cleaning part and me simply handling the rest – for some or other peculiar reason she doesn’t seem to appreciate my knack for shortcuts when it comes to washing floors! :)
So being the domesticated man that I am, I have never been one for shying away from the ironing board, and do a pretty decent job if I say so myself. However, recent discoveries in the world of ironing has led me to believe that a lot of this has in fact got to do with the type of clothes that I used to deal with in the first place.
Men’s clothes are by nature things of simplicity. First off, you have your t-shirt which is basically a giant panel with two sleeves attached. Shirts are slightly more complex with a collar and a larger panel, but it still pretty much all straight lines and panels. The same goes for long pants and shorts, with probably only cargo pants giving the most headaches thanks to their multitude of pockets. You may at this point argue the case of pleats, but honestly, how many males today still wear pleats in their pants? Probably only Donald Trump and that is because he has an army of two just for ironing his pants!
(And if you iron you underwear, then you have some serious issues to deal with.)
Women’s clothes on the other hand forgo all sense of logic and simplicity, instead abounding in strips and bands and pleats and puffiness and shoulders and sleeves of all shapes and sizes, all of which seem to be elastic as hell and incapable of lying still in a flattened pile. Try as you might it is impossible to iron a female shirt and don’t even get me started on those flared pants of theirs! Most of the time I end up hunting for a flat patch, ironing that little bit and then folding the garment up in a ball in the hopes that Chantelle only sees my half-assed work when it is already too late! I am telling you that ironing women’s clothes takes twice as long as men’s but only gets done half as well.
But of course, if ironing is such an issue, then folding is even more so. Again, men’s clothes are nice and simple and fold up in neat little squares, just the way you got them from the shop. Hassle free and without argument, men’s clothes just lie there, waiting to be calmly folded and neatly packed away. Womanly garments on the other hand seem complete and utterly allergic to folding reason and no matter how much care, time or effort you put in, you still end up with a round ball with some loose piece of material that comes from God knows where hanging off of the side! I give up! And don’t think that once the battle to fold them is over that you are done. Oh no, then comes the fun part of trying to find cupboard space in the overcrowded world that is a woman’s closet space. Generally I just pull open a door, toss the clothes in and run, hoping to avoid the tsunami threatening to burst the banks any minute now.
But you want to know what takes the biggest cake in the ironing and folding wars? I have a question that to this day lies unanswered, a question that bugs the heck out of me.
Just how the hell are you supposed to fold a g-string! It is a bloody piece of string for goodness sake!