Tuesday, May 25, 2010 | By: Hazel

A Black Hole Made Out of Fabric

In the darkest corner of my side of the room lies the horror that I have, for two weeks, ignored.

My laundry.

However, last night, I was forced to face its existence lest the growing mountain of dirty clothing would grow even  more in mass and density and completely take over the entire room, leaving my roommate and I to sleep outside with the rats.

Now, if there is one thing I hate with a passion, it is doing chores. It had been the subject of two decades of argument between me and my mother, who is a domestic diva if there ever was one. She has this old-fashioned notion that women should be good at housework and, for the life of me, I could never do anything to her satisfaction. Fortunately for both of us, I grew old enough to move out and, thus, ended what I thought would be a lifelong dispute between my mother, the domestic diva from hell, and me, the lousy homemaker from hell herself. Nowadays, whenever I went back home, there were always more important things to catch up on other than household chores.

Of course, living an independent single-girl-in-the-city lifestyle has forced me to deal with housework more frequently than I'm comfortable with. But, at least, I do not have to accomplish it according to the high standards of my mother. I have been doing housework on my own for 4 years now but I'm sure that if any of my recent chores were to be scrutinized by her, they would fail miserably. Luckily, I am among comrades who share the same predicament. So over gigantic basins full of soap suds, we share stories, gossips, and, more importantly, laundry tips that would get us through our ordeal, albeit temporarily.

Because the truth is, we will never get through it. As long as we live, there will always be that pile of laundry to wash. It is what it is. A perennial item on everyone's to-do list.

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