Grading

Grades are due tomorrow by 9:00 (though, as I tell my colleagues, they only call it the deadline to scare us) and I have been busily grading away, reading exams, reading papers, reckoning quiz averages, until my brainpan aches.

This morning I have to go have a root canal, talking of aches.

And this evening is the writing group.

So I says to mr. delagar, I says, why don't you do the laundry while I'm gone?

Since, you know, he's been done with his grading since Saturday.

What's in it for me, he says.

Ooooo.

So (I'll skip the nasty eleven minutes) I leave him doing the laundry.

And this is the funny bit.

I've always handled the laundry -- he helps fold and put it away, but I do bit where it gets sorted and put in the machine and all.

So he's taking one load out of the dryer, putting it in the basket, and he gets all appalled: "What is this?" he demands. "Why aren't we washing the kitchen items separate from the bedroom items? We should sort these categories beforehand! Think how much easier folding and putting away would be if we sorted beforehand! We could -- we could --"

"We could color-code the baskets," I suggest.

"Yes!" He folds pulls out one of the kid's shirts. "And why aren't you turning your clothes right-side in before you put them in the laundry?" he demanded. "Save people some time!"

This, from the dude who won't even put his socks in the basket, mind you.

The kid, eating her morning scone, gave me a sidelong look. I gave her one back. Daddy's getting hysterical again, we communicated.

I fully expect to come home and find six different colors of laundry baskets, all neatly labeled. With rotating dates for when we are meant to wash each.