Thursday, December 07, 2006

Anyone Seen My Testicles?

Hey how was your weekend? What did you do? Whenever I go to work on Monday, people inevitably ask that question. And I rarely have anything interesting to say. I spent sizable chunks of the summer and the fall complaining about the lack of free time I had. I would work all week and then spend each weekend doing lawn stuff. Mowing, pruning, raking, bagging. Sweating. Well, the sweating happens all the time anyway. But that's a story for another blog.

Most of the leaves had fallen by Thanksgiving and it was looking like I would finally have my weekends free to stare at the TV or spend time with my kids staring at the TV. But I could no longer avoid the monument to wrinkled clothing that had been forming in my bedroom for at least 7 or 8 months. There was a laundry basket filled with clothes that needed to be ironed. My wife can't iron for shit, which is either true or just a ploy to get me to do all the ironing. Either way, this basket just sits there. I move it into a closet twice a month so the cleaning lady can vacuum around it. So last Saturday night, I started ironing. Yes, the hot evening plans in suburbia involved ironing.

I started at 7:45 pm, having moved the ironing board down into the den so I could watch some TV and avoid the temptation of lying down in my bed. By 2 am, I had completed 43 items of clothing. The basket still looked full to me but 43 items? That's around 7 items per hour. Not bad! And I had also been doing 6 loads of laundry.

By the time Sunday evening arrived, I had seen something I hadn't since early in 2006: the bottom of the laundry basket. All told, I had ironed 80 items, did 6 loads of laundry and sewed two sweaters. Yeah, I sew. And come Monday, when people filled awkward silences in the elevators pretended to care what I did over the weekend, I still had nothing cool to say. In fact, my weekend activities were more pathetic than ever. So if you're looking for me this weekend, I'll probably be on my knees waxing the floor. Or scraping applesauce off the ceiling. Yeah, that part is true. I don't want to talk about it right now.

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