What's that smell?

I'm back to the reigning complaint in my life: the laundry. Why oh why does it multiply the way that it does? I know we've all been very busy doing stuff, but it seems to me that somebody at some point has been running a load or two. Of course, when you consider how much dirty clothes 5 people can generate, it's easy enough to see how that's not going to be enough.

Alas, I must make a concerted effort to do a bunch tonight, and every night, until I catch up. Hmmmm, who am I kidding? I'm never going to catch up.

I wonder, if when I die and become famous for all time, if scholars years and years from now will determine that the underlining theme of all my writing is an inability to keep up with a simple task like the laundry.

Some scholar will note that I suffered from angst, driven by societal pressure to be a supermom and a career woman, and a writer, and the expectations drove me to drink.

Nah, I hardly ever drink anymore. Unless we're talking about coffee.

Maybe some other scholar will deduce that laundry symbolizes the drudgery in my life, and my reluctance to engage in an act as mundane as washing clothes is an indication that I treasure adventure and the unknown.

True, but I like the comfort of the tried and true, too. Adventure is fine by me, but so is sitting around staring at the ceiling. Maybe I'm just crazy.

Perhaps, then, some scholar will draw the conclusion that I spent hours and hours writing, and the laundry was a nuisance.

Well, give that scholar a cookie. I certainly think laundry is a nuisance. But that part about writing tomes and tomes of stuff? Nope. I'm caught in a writer's block that stinks just about as much as the gigantic pile of dirty clothes.

Maybe the cure will be to do the laundry. At least things will smell fresher around here.