Detergent

Ask me how detergent works. No really, ask away. I took organic chemistry; I can give you a coherent explanation involving hydrophilic heads and lipids. My professors would be proud. Now ask me why I don’t do the laundry.

Wrong. It’s not because I’m a slob, it’s because I’m married.

And stop thinking I’m some sort of paternalistic oaf, who lounges on the couch in an undershirt drinking beer. I’m usually wearing much less, and I prefer red wine or brandy, thank you. I also do almost all the cooking. And I clean the toilet. Happy?

Good. Now back to the subject. I used to do my laundry, about once a week, or whenever I ran out of the limiting reagent (told you my professors were proud), usually underwear. I had a very simple method: I took my laundry bag, I tipped it upside down over the washer, I stuffed the clothes in, I added detergent, and I turned on the washer. When they were clean I put them in the dryer. When they were dry I folded them and put them away. Life was simple and my clothes were clean.

Then I got married. Now, before I wedded, I had technically never, well, you know. So there were many things about women that I was very unfamiliar with, and in particular I knew nothing about their clothes. They are quite deceptive, I found. Externally and functionally they greatly resembled my clothes, and I’ve never had any problems with operating them. At least, I mean I’ve never had any problems getting them off and I assume they go on pretty much the same way, though I wouldn’t know personally. There were a few extras to accommodate the various anatomical differences, and some hooky fastener thingies that I’d never seen before, but they were easy to figure out.

It wasn’t until we had settled down that the trouble began. It turns out that laundering woman’s clothes is more complicated than keeping tropical fish alive. You practically have to keep a pH meter by the washing machine next to the mass spectrometer to monitor water quality. I tried to do the laundry once. It went something like this.

Wife: “Sweetie, why are you putting all the clothes in the washing machine?”

Me: “I’m just doing the laundry.”

Wife: “But you haven’t sorted the clothes.”

Me: “Sorted them?”

Wife: “You know, so the colors won’t run.”

Me: “Why? Are they scared of water?”

Wife, busily unstuffing the washing machine: “And you can’t machine wash this,” as she holds up some random piece of clothing that looks exactly like all the other clothes, “or this, or this.”

Me: “But,”

Wife: “Is this the mat from the kitchen?”

Me, happy to know the right answer: “Why yes, we hadn’t washed it in a bit and I thought”

Wife: “Why did you put in it with my delicates?”

Me: “Your whats?”

Wife: “Didn’t you read the tag?”

Me: “Why?”

Wife: “It tells you how to properly wash it.”

Me: “I thought it was just there to let you know which side goes in the back.”

After this little episode there was a similar scene involving the dryer, and a debacle in which my briefs somehow ended up slightly pink. My wife has done the laundry since.

My question is simply this: How could pink dye be so scared of water that I would choose my briefs instead?”