This is what earns me the right to drink a vodka martini at 11am on a Thursday morning without needing to sing “It’s 5 o’clock somewhere”, or explaining to anyone why my glass is not really filled with just o.j.
Perhaps I am looking for sympathy here, but this is not your normal laundry duty. This is my husband’s military uniform. I have to wash these filthy things several times each week, and each time seems to get worse than the last.
I mean, ‘Laundry’ is in my url after all…but it’s not to offer tips on how to properly clean your clothes… oh no, it’s to solicit pity and understanding of my need to bribe myself to actually commit to cleaning this stuff.
The smell, oh the smell. It’s something like wet dog, poop, dirty shoes, sweat and maybe throw in a pinch of rotten egg. It is FOUL.
And there’s these fun little dark sticky places that I have to figure out how to scrape off of the fabric. Who knows what it is? He’s out in the woods, climbing mountains and kneeling in brush all day and night…berries? bugs? dooky? Whatever it is, it’s icky.
I spend about 30 minutes per uniform scrubbing the worst areas with a pre-wash spray. If I don’t scrub it prior to washing, the stain won’t budge.
Do you feel sorry for me yet??? (I’m trying really hard to feel super sorry for myself).
Mmmmm, wanna use this to brush your teeth???
Okay, I’ll stop sharing the disgusting parts of being a military wife. There’s good parts too, I’m just not in the mood to share those right now because I feel the need for a good ol’ fashion pity party. And a party isn’t complete without cocktails. (Don’t worry, I’m kidding about the martini at 11am. I’m having iced tea, and it isn’t spiked I promise.)