Returned home after a glorious two week bar mitzvah trip for my oldest in Jerusalem. (Yes, the pink pony was waiting for me.)
Coming back is tough. Reality bites. Jetlag is a bitch. And then there’s the laundry. My kids not only insist on bringing back the filthiest clothes possible, but I also get souvenirs of the shit they’ve collected and stuffed in their pockets. If anybody wants Tel Aviv sand, Jerusalem rocks, Dead Sea mud, or crumbs from an assortment of Passover snacks, you know where to find me.
I’m not a big a big fan of the dryer. When you are relying on passing clothes down to other kids, the last thing you want is for them to shrink. I have therefore installed hooks and racks and shelves all over the laundry room to dry about three quarters of the clothes I wash. I even have towel rods in my ceiling.
After two weeks away, I can’t even get into the laundry room. I stuck my head in and took some pics.
Oh wait. There is also the back of the door.
Luckily, I am the worst sufferer of jetlag known to womankind. The house is quiet and I am awake. Laundry calls. But maybe I can do some of it all while catching up on episodes of The Good Wife.
Oh my God. I’m officially swimming in cliché.