Dear Stephen King, I miss the f*(&#ng laundry

No. I mean it. Stop laughing.

Not just you, I mean everyone needs to stop laughing. Especially me. Because the sad truth is… I am laundry intolerant. If you asked my husband, he’d tell you I’m ALL CHORE intolerant. And then I’d argue because I DO like chores as long as I’m in the mood…. but I’ve never been in the mood for laundry. Until today.

It’s Veterans Day,  and I have the day off. Which is really really good because I have a book DUE, (like, no joke last chance due. All excuses exhausted due) on Monday. And even though there are wife mother friend things to do, I can’t do them. Because when I’m not working, I’m working.

I’m writing. All day. Editing, thinking, imagining, sitting my ass down and putting the god damned words on the paper. Because you said to do it that way, and because it works, and because I’m a beast. Usually.


I have so much laundry. I feel like my room might burst open with it soon. I’ll be mummified in denim. Encased in cotton. The walls will fall away and everyone in the greater metropolitan area will be evacuated because of the impending garment avalanche. There’s a novel there somewhere….

So, here’s the thing….my grandmother died last April. I can’t talk about it yet. I can’t write about it the way I’d like to. I think it’s because I’m scared she might really leave me if I “work through it”.

And she can’t leave me, because she talks to me.

Today she told me to do my laundry.

So I take a break from the words and I dive into the massive piles. I separate, wash on cold, tumble dry low and then FOLD. On the couch. Warm, clean, laundry. Like my gram did when I was small. Like my mom did when my gram didn’t. Like I never do.

And I started to think about this chore thing in an unexpected way.

Like…..What about that cold November day when you’re sick at home and your mom brings you to the couch and you slip in and out of a dreamy sleep while listening to soap operas on the tv and smell good things cooking and…. laundry.

Tess was home sick today. I just realized I never gave her lunch. It’s dinner time. There is no dinner made. I didn’t even put Vicks on her, and I ALWAYS DO THAT. Like, it’s the one thing I actually do. I swear, I amaze myself sometimes.

So I vow:

“It’s time to bring back the comfort!  The fresh baked bread hair brushed soups on warm bath cookie dough mama  -love! You hear me girls? You hear me Bill? I AM ON FIRE WITH THIS MOTHERLY SHIT!!! And it’s going to be epic!….next Tuesday.”


I wonder if I haven’t missed the whole point of life. If during my scratching and clawing my way from one existence to the other I forgot to remember what meaningful actually means. Or, in short-

I miss the fucking laundry.  I suggest a new book. “On Laundry.”

Love, Suzanne