On washing clothes

My wife and I have a fundamental disagreement as to how many subcategories one should observe in sorting laundry. She is able to recognize at least a dozen variations with whites in warm water with no bleach, whites in hot water with bleach, blacks in cold water, blacks in warm water with non-chlorine bleach, reds, greens, hand-washable wools, cotton plaid flannels, delicate cycle silks, etc., etc., etc.. It has only been in the past few years that I have begun to recognize the necessity of a light vs. dark split. Prior to that, I separated laundry using the “will fit in this load” or “won’t fit in this load” separation technique. This, as might be expected, led to some early marital friction. As a result, I am strictly prohibited by a court order from ever coming within fifty yards of any of her laundry.

We have a similar disagreement when it comes to the dishwasher. I am of the opinion that once automatic dishwashers were invented, all utensils, dishes, and pans that could not be loaded into them should have been destroyed by being thrown on a huge bonfire with joyous participants wearing only large yellow rubber gloves circled around in a frenzy of primitive orgiastic dancing. (The dancing, probably isn’t necessary, I just like the image.) In addition, any manufacturer who insisted on still making “non-dishwasher safe” items should be publicly flogged. (Primitive orgiastic dancing is optional here, as well.) She, who holds my heart in her yellow gloved hands, disagrees. As a result, we still have to hand wash china, crystal, Tupperware, and wooden cutting boards.

I am sure that some daytime television psycho-babbler has found and analyzed the root causes of these types of sex-based differences. I am sure that it stems from a deep-seated flaw instilled into us by our parents, our genes, or our society-at-large. My wife, however, has a simpler and undoubtedly, more accurate assessment of this complex phenomenon. I am a pig.