My Little Laundress And The Curse Of The Scorched Shirts

I've faced the fact. I'm a self-proclaimed laundry over-sorter. I segregate laundry more than some Republican neighborhood school districts. And while I do treasure our precious planet's resources, I also like nice things. And I like to keep them nice.

Greg's method of washing clothes is much more utilitarian. He opts for an efficiency-based model, practically filling the washer directly from the hamper. It's not that he is all earthy-crunchy (or lesbian-esque), he's just focused on getting the task done with no regards to what Tim Gunn would do.

And don't even get me started on the dryer. I have pleaded with him for ages to pretend that any heat setting above 'Delicate' does not exist. But still on occasion, I have found our clothes drying at a temperature suitable for cooking Tandoori chicken. Part of the problem is that Greg doesn't have my fear of shrinkage. He is able to maintain his weight within a 3lb range. I however, have full-figured gal genes that cause me to have more of a 10lb swing requiring me to need all of the material that my clothing started out with.

Up until recently, I have only had to contend with one "chef" in the laundry room. But as it turns out, our household is gearing up for a veritable Top Chef: Laundry Room competition. It seems that Greg has trained a Sous Chef - Elly. This dynamic duo has joined forces to ensure that all of Joe's clothes become Barbie-sized by the end of 2011.

Our washer and dryer are stacked with the washer on the bottom. Elly, who loves to help with chores, has a special penchant for laundry. (Note to self: get this on video to remind her in her teen years). As soon as she sees me near the washing machine, she gets all excited - "Wash?! Wash?!" "Yes, Elly, you can help Daddy."

I pre-treat with Shout. She tosses the clothes in. I add the bio-degradable detergent (see, I'm not all that bad), our cocktail of stain combatants - OxyClean, Tide Stain Release and assorted others, depending on the kind of week we've had - and she helps close the door. So far, so good. Unless we're washing whites, towels or some of Elly's clothes, I set the temperature to cold and off we go. And then it begins. The dial is exactly at Elly's height. Between the cheerful chime sounds and the bright lights, my little laundress can't control herself. If I turn my attention to something else for even five seconds, just like an old woman at Foxwoods, Miss Elly spins that dial and somehow manages to hit "Sanitize" almost every time. (Roulette. Definitely take her to roulette. Definitely roulette.) While Sanitize is the perfect cycle for making sure that nothing will come out of the wash alive, it is not so kind for that shirt clearly marked "Machine Wash Cold".

And if Papa Greg makes it to the dryer before Daddy gets to it, then it ends up not only boiled but baked. Hmmm, maybe this is the cosmos encouraging us to open a bagel shop?