When my husband and I first got together, he had several annoying habits. Leaving dishes in the sink was a biggie. Now, four years later, I’ve broken him of that. However, there is one problem I cannot make any headway on, no matter how many times I gently prod or flat out yell. I’m speaking of The Laundry Pile.

The Laundry Pile has risen to the top of the Things I’d Like to Change About My Husband list. At first, it was kind of cute. His reasoning was, if he couldn’t see his laundry, he couldn’t keep on top of it. It was like some sort of caveman instinct that told him when The Laundry Pile hit three feet, it was time to do a load... or eight.

I asked my female friends about The Laundry Pile and found that it’s a common problem. One friend told me that, after she investigated an unpleasant smell, she found the source to be a dead mouse in her husband’s Laundry Pile. Give it up, she said, there is no hope.

Once I moved in, I became convinced The Laundry Pile was trying to kill me. It was in the most unfortunate location: a narrow hallway between the bed and the bathroom. You can only imagine what it’s like to wake up in the middle of the night and groggily make the trek to the bathroom — only to wind up face down in The Laundry Pile.

The Laundry Pile also attacked me in broad daylight. I’d always make sure to walk through the hallway hugging the opposite wall, to give The Laundry Pile a wide berth. All my efforts were for naught, as some stray sock or carelessly discarded pair of boxer shorts would usually end up in my path.

After a few of these incidents, I invested in a laundry bag that hung on the door. It was mesh, so it was easy to see the amount of laundry in it — negating the “how will I keep track of my clothes?” argument.

I gave myself a symbolic pat on the back as The Laundry Pile receded and the laundry bag grew. I called my mom, who offered up congratulations. My friends wanted to throw me a victory party. I thought about teaching classes and producing my own infomercial to teach other women how to fight The Laundry Pile.

My victory, however, was short-lived. Once the laundry bag was full, a few odds and ends began appearing at the former site of The Laundry Pile. I told myself to calm down, as old habits are hard to break.

Another early morning run-in with The Laundry Pile — which by then had grown to two or three times its former size — convinced me I needed a new strategy. This time, I bought a lovely, white Rubbermaid hamper. I made gentle suggestions that all civilized men use a hamper. It worked for a while but then the most curious thing happened: he began to pile the clothes right next to the hamper. Sometimes, the dirty clothes ended up on top of the empty, closed hamper, as if he was too lazy to open the damn thing.

I called my mom to ask for advice. She just laughed. My friends said I was foolish to take on The Laundry Pile.

We have since moved, and The Laundry Pile now has a safer home, in the far corner of our bedroom. There sits a perfectly good hamper, engulfed by The Laundry Pile.

Every time I look at it, I remember the brief moment of victory, when dirty laundry had its place and women everywhere had hope.


Heather Miller is a newlywed from Greeley. She doesn’t do her husband’s laundry.

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