An Army Wife Blog: How To Do Laundry When You're Awesome

So last week Cuban and I had a conversation that went something like this:

C "So, do you think you could do me a favor?" (He's obviously about to ask for oral sex*)
Me "Um, sure. What is it?"
C "Well, I don't know if you can, I mean, I don't know if its possible..." (He's obviously about to ask for anal sex*)
Me "What?"
C "Do you have a laundry machine at the place?" (Damn)
Me "Yes. Would you like me to do some laundry for you?"
C "YES PLEASE!"
Me "...great..."

Apparently, aside from fighting terrorists, exercising while its still dark out and learning all manner of secret Army secrets, laundry is the hardest and most challenging thing he has to do every week. I don't really know what to think about this. A grown man, who can handle guns and knives and grow an impressive mustache has trouble doing ONE load of laundry, once a week. And its not like his one load needs any kind of special attention. Tracksuits aren't notoriously difficult to launder. There's no cashmere, silk, knit or suede in his wardrobe. He's like a walking advertisement for Cotton products, or a laundry detergent for people who have a lot of dirty kids.

Well, we're new, so I'm going to consider this whole thing adorable. And I have a lot of free time on my hands, plus it seems a shame to refuse him when the most pressing thing on my schedule is making peanut-butter-and-banana-on-crackers for lunch. And I love him. But I suspect that this would be not so cute if I didn't love him. Much like the way he is able to stand precisely in my way at 4am, the way sweet, tiny black hairs get left in the sink after he shaves and the way he kicks me in the shins with his big dumb boots whenever I make the mistake of sitting across from him at a restaurant. I used to sit next to him in booths (even when it was just him and I, which was always) because I couldn't get close enough to him, I would have sat on his lap and spoon fed him if people hadn't stared. Now I sit next to him in booths to protect myself from being accidentally crippled by giant beige Army boots. I wonder if my new healthcare provider covers that.

Actually, laundry day was really, really fun for me. I felt like such a provincial little woman carrying a wicker basket of my dear husband's wet clothes over to the clothesline, where I lovingly took way too long to hang them to be dried by the sun. I'm certain that Jeanine (our saintly neighbor/landlord) could have done the whole thing in half the time. However, I'm new to clotheslines and womanly feelings, so when I get the opportunity to do these things I like to cherish them. Like when I feed the chickens and steal their unborn babies while they're not paying attention, I cherish. I did a little spying on her while she was hanging clothes the other day, and I picked up on some very impressive techniques. See if you hang the shirt over the clothesline then put the clothespins in the armpits, then you don't get the little pinch marks which are difficult to iron out. Even with your own, brand new iron and all the time in the world because a Golden Girls marathon is on TV.

Besides the hideous pinch marks, the only problem I ran into on laundry day was one of modesty. You see, Specialist has beige underwear. They're very nice and very sturdy and they go really well with the whole camouflaged, Army Combat Uniform (ACUs) look. And from the driveway where other people occasionally drive by, you can't even see them because they're so unremarkable. I am not in the Army, as I continually tell myself and others, and nothing I own is beige. Nothing I own is cream, or nude or buff or tan. The under things I own come in all different colors and prints and sizes and believe me you can see them from the road. So I made myself a small personal clothesline, just for personal things, that hangs off my porch where only the deer and hummingbirds can see it. I considered this a great personal achievement and went inside to celebrate (by myself) with a cold can of Diet Coke when I was ambushed and overwhelmed by a tidal wave of warm, womanly, squishy emotion. For as I looked out my small kitchen window, I noticed my dear sweet husband's ugly beige briefs blowing in the wind, for all the world to see. I died.