The other day, as the holiday break began to roll towards conclusion, we had a lot of laundry to do. A LOT of laundry. And so we spent all day on Thursday just running load after load after load of clothes through the cleaning mill. Kristi then spent Thursday night folding and sorting, because she knows that if I’m left to do it, everything will end up crammed-crumpled into whatever drawer is closest.

So yesterday we went out to run a few errands, and because my wife insists that I go outside in clean clothes – rather than my native custom of throwing on whatever’s left on the floor from the night before – I went looking for one of the new sweaters her parents gave me for Christmas. Confusion and hilarity ensued.

“Babe, where’s my sweater? The new brown one?”

Yelling from the bathroom. “It’s in the basket!”

“There are two baskets!”

“It’s the FOLDING basket!”

Uh, okay. Both baskets are “folding”, collapsible laundry baskets. So that doesn’t help.

“Babe, I’m looking in the basket of shirts and pants. It’s not here.”

“It’s in the FOLDING basket! The FOLDING BASKET!!”

“It’s NOT HERE.”

Then she comes stomping into the bedroom. “See? TWO BASKETS.” Point: “FOLDING.” Point: “HANGING UP.”

“But that one’s shirt and pants. And that one’s, like, underwear and socks. Why would my sweater be in the underwear basket?”

“TWO BASKETS! FOLDING! HANGING UP! FOLDING! HANGING UP!”

“But..”

“YOU NEVER HANG UP SWEATERS.”

“But..”

“FOLDING!”

“But that’s the underwear-and-socks basket..”

“ARGH!!! FOLDING! HANGING UP! FOLDING! HANGING UP!!!”

“But..”

“OH – this is SO turning into the next R&K entry. Cheese and rice.”

Sure enough, though, the sweater was in the bottom of the underwear basket. Odd place for it, I still think.