laundry | Grass Oil by Molly Field

If you’ve been following me for a while, thank you. Your poor bastahds, you must have nothing else to do.

You have probably figured out I like to write. I write about all sorts of stuff, except politics. I have three boys: I don’t need any extra work in my life.

I write about personal things, motherhood things, aging things, rowing, friendships, yoga, ~~running~~ jogging, laundry. I sometimes write with an edge. I write entirely in lower case sometimes. Other times I use “proper” punctuation.

I like to think that I’m above certain behaviors. Or better, I like to have you think I’m above certain behaviors… well, perception is everything, right?

Here’s what I’m not above: letting perfectly clean laundry sit in a basket for several days unfolded and all scrunchy and watching Bravo-TV.

Don’t you love my logo? It was really hard to do. I spent like… oh, six seconds creating it. It’s hot. I know.

I thought that in the spring I’d had it with Bravo’s #1 viewed quintet of queso, the “Real Housewives of New Jersey.” I thought I’d given up on them. I even thought I told my DVR to not record any more shows. But then lo and behold, almost two weeks ago… there they were: Teresa Guidice, Melissa Gorga, Kathy Wakili, Jacqueline Laurita and Caroline Manzo and their fake-boobed, appendage-like, botox-stricken, remora friends all over my DVR — THREE EPISODES! OHMAIGAWD! This was like winnin’ the frickin’ loddery, JeeeezUS! Ah you kiddin’ mey?

I didn’t look up their names. I actually know these biotches’ names by heart. What’s worse is that I know their husbands’ names too. I won’t do it though. You can’t make me go there. (Joe, Joe, Rich, Chris and Albert.) Gawd, I’m pathetic.

Back to remoras. Do you know what a remora is? It’s that little fish like thing that hangs out with sharks. It’s a symbiotic relationship: the sharks don’t eat the remoras because the remoras clean the mites off the shark’s body. (I love sharks. That came out wrong: I respect them and I love them. I don’t like that they occasionally eat a human, but if we stayed on land all the time we wouldn’t be attacked by them. Just saying.)

What I’d realized is that I told the DVR (lissen t’ me… “told the DVR” how cute) to stop recording the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills because of all their backstabbing. There’s something … I dunno … expected out of our east coast Real Housewives in terms of really poor behavior. They have to drive around with all that ill-begotten wealth in all those dead animal skins and whatnot.

Regarding Beverly Hills, I’d like to think that all the money, fame, limos and child-stars turned psych ward inmates of the region would have enabled the ladies to have more of their acts together. They disappointed. I had total faith in Camille Grammer to pull the show up a notch or two last year, but watching that sad, pathetic Kim Richards live with that mole man (now I really can’t remember his name) was too much for me. Too contrived. (I know, right?) So when I realized that my DVR did have my best interests at heart (and the kids will love this because now their laundry will be folded and ready for them to put away) by recording the New Jersey girls, I jumped for joy.

Finally, we get to the point of all this: the taglines. I love a good tagline: “Have a Coke and a Smile”; “UPS: The World on Time”; “Staples: That Was Easy.” “Dick Nixon: I am not a crook.”

The RHONJ taglines have been amended a bit this year from previous years to reflect the agendas or maybe self-reflective introspection on behalf of the ladies. (Ok, I know, “introspection”: that was reaching.) Last year, Jacqueline said, “I might blah blah blah, but I AM my own person” because she was such a remora to all the bitter, wedge-driving losers on the show in previous years.

This year, Jacqueline’s tagline is something like, “I’m a Vegas girl at heart, …” I forget the rest, it doesn’t matter, I learned all I needed to with ‘Vegas girl.’ (Her father is a retired Army colonel, that’s shit’s hard to pull off, making colonel… she coulda said something about that…) Teresa says “When things get tough, you learn who your real friends are.” Melissa says something having to do with throwing the first punch and being a knock-out. Kathy’s talks about “We’re old school: we believe in respect.” Caroline’s is something like “I’m 50. I’m lucky to still be on this show.” No, actually, it’s “Life is too short, I don’t have any time for drama.” Which is essentially the same as my fake “I’m 50” tagline.

So last night, Thing 2, who is bloody hilarious, started making fun of the taglines. He would push out his booty and say, “Tereeesah: I’m a knock-out!” and it was very funny. Until it became creepy.

But it got me thinking… what would my tagline be for my new season this fall? (Just kidding, there is no new season … maybe there should be.) And I thought about it and thought about it and thought about it and came up with this:

“I’m Molly. I love my bed. Don’t wake me before 9 on Sundays if you want to live.”

So I want to ask you (and I really hope you do this): what would your tagline be? So pleeeease… do one. I can’t wait.

Thank you!

She should have known better.

All the typical telltale signs and warnings were there.

The kindly husband hunched over, silently searching for socks in the dawn’s early light; shower steam rising from the bathroom door’s opening.

The children milling about in two-day-old mustard-stained t-shirts, their socks shiny and sticking to their feet.

The tweet went out as this,

“Fed-up mother unleashes hostile laundry rampage. Colors carelessly mixed with whites, perm. press & delicates ‘Just for the hell of it.’”

When the officers arrived at the scene, it was sheer bedlum.

Cottons with polyesters.

“I could build a garrison around myself with the hampers. They would never find me… My body wouldn’t be discovered for days due to the clean laundry smell… yoga pants… yoga pants… socks,” the perp was mumbling.

Quick-dry performance wear and pajamas pulled from the dryer; the fabric softener sheets clinging to them for their dear inanimate lives.

“Everyone knows you don’t use fabric softeners with pajamas — it’s a fire hazard,” said the first investigator.

“Fire hazard, shmire shmazard. Better the PJs than the athletic wear. If you use a drop or a one-inch square of that stuff with the dry-fit, you can kiss your moisture wicking good-bye,” scoffed the forensics lead. She didn’t look up once as she scanned over the laundry with a black light looking for unwashed clothes mixed in with the clean, a common crime associated with mothers whose laundry tasks overextended their abilities or mental bandwidth.

A boy’s small blue and red striped t-shirt draped over a heap of yellows; a twin-size ecru sheet, the fitted one, and probably 500-thread count, was mixed in with dark blues with little regard for the tan dress socks at the bottom of the heap, crushed under the weight, but visible through the cheap plastic basket’s vents.

“That basket looks like it was part of an elementary school’s basket raffle. It’s definitely not up to the task of this family,” said the lead.

Turkish spa-quality towels clung to cheap, Target-brand bed sheets.

In fact, everything was smothered and wrinkled. Even the “Spider-Man” costume’s muscles were crimped.

“I don’t care anymore. I can’t take it. I don’t care anymore. Stripes with solids. Plaids with polka dots. Hot wash, cold rinse. Double rinse. Whites with bolds. Colors with solids… cold water colors… extra long spin cycle… solids…coldsolidstripes… sweatshirtsinaugust… flannelpajamapantsinjuly… delicates… coo-coo! coo-coo! What time is it? What time is it? I’ll tell you what TIME IT IS!!! IT’S TIME TO DO YOUR OWN LAUNDRY! YOOOU baaaaaastarrrrdssssss! Who wears socks in the summmmmerrrr?!” the alleged laundry mother hissed scathingly. Her eyes, dazed and eerily dilated, were locked on the TV screen showing a re-run of “Law & Order: Criminal Intent.”

Silencing Vincent D’Onofrio required pushing the power button on the set as the remote control was lost. “Probably under a blanket or a pair of board shorts judging by the looks of this place,” said a rookie.

Permanent press was permanently unpressed, disheveled.

The traditional nattiness of this family’s fashion legacy was unraveled and tattered on one sultry August afternoon.

This isn’t your grandmother’s laundry pile.

“Chief! Over here — I’ve found a wicker basket loaded only with socks. Who does this?!” asked the rookie, barely able to control himself.

“Keep your pants on. This basket is the work of a laundry veteran. The socks are reserved for the mind-numbing task of sorting them later,” she said.

She had tried to make jokes about it before. Showing another pile on the ottoman, surrounded by irony: a clean house. Posting it on her facebook wall, as an attempt at self-effacing satire, a joke about herself and her miserable laundry skills.

This isn’t funny. Even though it is. Don’t laugh. Don’t feed that dog.

But it wasn’t funny.

“She didn’t even look for the union label,” was the last thing the lead officer said as she stretched the POLICE CRIME SCENE: DO NOT ENTER tape around the entry of the home.

Thank you.