He didn’t marry me for my laundry skills

Nobody can screw up laundry like me. Nobody. If you think you can, you’re dead wrong.

If it is preshrunk, I will shrink it more.

If it is white, I will turn it pink, yellow, or an undistinguishable shade of gray.

If it is stained, it will remain stained.

If you are a sock, you will never see your match. Ever. You may match up with a similar colored sock, but it won’t be the same size.

I am the proud owner of a fabulous washing machine and dryer, and I do absolutely nothing with them. Clothes go in and they come out clean. Period, end of conversation. On occasion they come out soft, although quite by accident. The steps to do proper laundry make me insane. Presoak, prewash, pretreat. Who has the time? Isn’t a washing machine just that, a machine that washes clothes? Why do I have to tell it what to do and at what temperature?

The entire laundry industry is built on a scam. Did you know the best way to treat a stain is to soak it in COLD water? What? Doesn’t HOT water disinfect and clean? I’m out.

In complete contrast, my mother-in-law is a master launderer. She can fold shirts like an origami queen. Stains shiver in her presence. Everything is soft. No sock has ever, or will ever be misplaced. When I visit and need to wash clothes, she patiently shows me how to use her washing machine. I’m quite sure she knows I can use a washing machine, I think she is trying to give me a lesson. I’m a lost cause.

My husband is patient with me. He knows that if he folds his legs during a meeting there is a 75% chance his socks will not be the same color. I’ve shrunk more shirts than Brooks Brothers has in their winter catalog. He has become close friends with his dry cleaner.

I’ve learned to embrace this reality. So fine, I’m never going to win the Tide Challenge and my husband is okay with that. Because, let’s be honest, he didn’t marry me for my laundry skills.

Truth is, I’m one hell of a chef . . .