Inventory Of Domestic Tasks, Of The Mind; Friday Ghost Stories

I hate laundry. More specifically, I hate folding laundry and putting it away. I don't mind washing it, and I have no real issues drying it, though I don't do a good job of separating and applying the correct detergents for each type of fabric. But there are so many pieces of things that each have to be tended to and my folding skills....I define lame.

I think part of the issue is that I like to start things, but I have a hard time finishing them, especially if they have lots of little steps. Laundry does. Whites from colors, cottons from poly blends, tumble hot or low heat, possible ironing, folding then placing in various drawers. LOTS of steps.

I am against lots of steps for the most part.

I do NOT mind cleaning the bathroom at all. I'd rather scrub a toilet than fold clothes. I'd rather scrape dishes, than fold clothes. Take out the trash, mop, buy groceries? Fine.

I am not the most orderly organized person. I'm not actually messy or hoardery, but things in my drawers and closets are random. I make attempts to correct this, I do. But I can't be bothered for the most part.

My mother was a world class folder. Her linen cabinet was akin to Martha Stewart's. How is it that I can look so much like her, have her stance and walk, but not be able to fold? Her jewelry boxes and medicine cabinets were like a map to a land of costume clarity and doctoral direction. She had a tool kit with each part labeled. Her office? Everything was filed within an inch of it's life. There were two full sized filing cabinet drawers filled with the year to year development of me.

That's actually one way we realized she was getting dementia, because she started filing things wrong.

Me? I file things randomly at home or not at all. My clothes are roughly dropped into drawers, jewelry haphazardly and forgetfully put away. My medicine cabinet is jambled and jumbled full of things, pills to make you bigger or small, but the way is not clear to anyone but me.

What does this mean? I sometimes pretend it means my brain is safe from the ravages of Alzheimer's. Maude knows, I've done as much different than her as possible in the hope that my path won't be hers. Paths I should say, based on the many tragedies of her life all of which I am hoping to avoid. But looking at my eldest son, who can't manage step by step math problems, or remembering his backpack without tearing out his hair.....I wonder if perhaps my brain is doomed already. His too.

We live with ghosts every day, if we really think about it. I struggle with mine in the form of laundry. I do my best, but I am often rumpled.

Comments

  1. One of the few useful domestic skills I learned from my mother was how to fold a fitted sheet neatly.

    I'm telling you, you can really knock people's socks off with that one.

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