Laundry Room Security...

...I wash clothes so Jeremy doesn't have to.

(It was funnier in my head, as so many things are.)

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I was doing so well with house work for so long. Tidy house, clean(ish) floors, dishes done, dinner planned every night, laundry always folded and put away. I must have reached around too far to pat myself on the back over this because I seemed to have sprained something and can't do anything but lie around anymore. I need a pool boy.

You can always tell how many days it's been since I've done laundry by the pants I'm wearing around the house. I made a threat level diagram. I'm omitting shorts and skirts because temperatures around here plummeted a few days ago, and because it's a lot of work to make basic pictures in paint. Especially with a touch pad. Maybe I'll make a new threat level diagram for the summer. But probably not.

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Laundry day, and the day after (Threat Level: None):



Jeans, they go with everything! The fabric is stiff enough to shape my waistline into something resembling a waist!

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Two days post-laundry (Threat Level: Low):



Jeans, they stretch out! And sag! And the only thing they hold in are the flesh just below your waist.

I didn't draw the love handles. You're welcome.

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Four days post-laundry (Threat Level: Guarded):



By now they are barely staying on. And I've eaten a few meals, thus the polka dots (they're actually food, but I'm not good with Paint). Shut up. Do you know how hard it is to find jeans that fit? Jeans that I won't have to sell one of the kids in order to afford?

Wait. That's genius!

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Six days post-laundry (Threat Level: Elevated):



This is odd, I know, but these are my nice pants. I save them for church. So if you see me wearing them, and it's not Sunday, it probably means I accidentally poured ketchup on myself the day before.

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Ten days post-laundry (Threat Level: High):



Yes, I wore the other pants for four days. Shut up. They make me look skinny. Don't judge.

These are my fleece pants from Christmas three years ago. They're very comfortable. I love them. But they're not for public consumption. And they don't make a housewife feel sexy. I don't think they make anyone feel sexy.

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Twelve days post-laundry (Threat Level: Severe):



If you stop by my house and find me in these, it probably means you want to turn right around and go back to wherever you came from. We have no clean laundry. The kids are probably naked. Jeremy is wearing that one shirt I always shove to the back of the closet because I hate it but don't have the heart to tell him, so I just hope he'll forget about it back there.

I couldn't capture the correct color on here. They are horrible enough to be offensive, but just unhorrible enough to maybe make a person think I wore them on purpose because I like them. This is why the pajama pants are a lower threat level. At least if I have to dart into the front yard, my neighbors will look at me and say, "Oh, she's still in her pajamas." If I run into the yard with these horrors on my legs, they'll say, "What was she thinking paying money for those?"

They were THREE DOLLARS at Wal-Mart. And the only pants ever in existence that didn't slice into my C-section wound. OKAY?

(Yes, my neighbors do pay close attention to my pants. It's a really small town.)

(They don't really.)

(But I always imagine people are talking about me... and not in a nice way.)