Death By Laundry

I'm not doing so well with the laundry.

Yesterday I was walking down the stairs to the basement where our washer and dryer are. I had my arms full of a brand new, unopened and thankfully plastic bottle of white vinegar (I use it as a fabric softener for my towels). On the steps was a plastic mattress bag, which I didn't see until I was sprawled out on the basement floor wondering what the fuck just hit me. I slammed down three steps (thank God I was near the bottom), hit my rib cage full on against the gas tank and did something, I don't know what but it's painful, to my wrist.

I screamed pretty loud, and my two shaggy heroes immediately came rushing down to see what had happened to me. One made sure I hadn't broken anything, and one danced around me and licked my face.

After I had calmed down a bit, Rob asked me, "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

I glared at him, wounded and angry. "Yeah, you can stop leaving fucking plastic bags on the stairs where I can trip and fall! I could have died, man. I COULD HAVE DIED."

"YOU LEFT IT ON THE STEPS!" he bellowed back at me.

"I did?"

"Yeah, you threw it down the steps, and I asked if you were sure you wanted to leave it there and YOU SAID YES!"

"Oh. Sorry. Well..."

Because he was nice, he helped me up and didn't say anything else about it. He also finished the laundry I had been going to do, and let me boss him around about how to do it.

Today I was downstairs changing over a load and hit my head on the washing machine
door REALLY. EFFING. HARD. Again, Rob and Mattie rushed to see what was wrong, and I was sent upstairs. Rob went back down to finish the laundry for me, (again, because he is wonderful) and I sat pathetically in a lump on the couch with some ice on my head.

Being a housewife is dangerous!