This morning as I sat at the breakfast bar drinking my coffee and deciding what to do for the day, I heard my husband mumble something to my daughter and then head out the front door.
“What did dad say?” I turned to my daughter Kitt who sat in her usual morning spot, my grandmother’s rocking chair in our kitchen.
“Don’t follow him.”
“Huh?” My slow processing speed and years of loud concerts often cause me to ask for repetition.
“Daddy SAID don’t follow him.” She huffed and stuck her thumb in her mouth. I have to work on that damn thumb, I told myself as my husband walked through the kitchen, passed the dining room table, and into the den. He proceeded to then walk by me with the gigantic laundry rack I bought him for his birthday. A picture of the rack follows:
Let me explain, I know that the expectation is, as a farmer’s wife, I am supposed to love things like housework and laundry. I am also supposed to love hanging clothes out to dry in order to save the environment and propane. But I am the first to admit — I LOVE my dryer. I love that I can throw a load of laundry in and it all comes out toasty, soft, and wrinkle-free.
The anachronism that is my husband, however, takes offense to that, and like a good environmentalist wants to line dry all of his clothes — which during the winter, means on a dryer rack in the den. If I don’t catch him in time I end up with jeans that feel like a starch can has been emptied onto them and bath towels that, well, let’s just say that I do not need to exfoliate if I don’t catch the towels before they end up on the rack.
On this 60+ degree spring day, my husband decided instead of using the clothes line in the back of the house, he would take the massive rack and place it on the front lawn. As he knew what my reaction would be, he told my daughter to run interference.
Thankfully, I was able to stop him from hanging all of our underwear out for all passerbys to see.
“What’s the problem?” He goaded me, knowing full well what the problem was, “It’s sunnier out front.”
“Come on! Everyone will see my freaking bra! There’s a clothes line in the back yard, for all that is good and holy.”
He shook his head and brought the rack to our back deck.
“That’s it.” I told him, “This is totally going on the blog.”
“So what you are telling me is that you don’t want the thirty cars that pass by our house to see your underwear, but the entire internet is OK.”
“Exactly.” It is so beyond me why he didn’t understand. I mean who wants this on their front lawn: