I have told my father over and over and over. Please, for the love of all that is holy do not, I mean do not touch my clothes while they are in the laundry process. I must be talking to a brick wall. Yes I know that I have a particular way of washing my clothes. I know that they are not his way of washing clothes. I hate coming home after a long day of doctor's appointments, MRI's, poking and prodding to my favorite shirts. shrunk down to a toddler size that I could no more squeeze my foot into then my big ass belly. Then as I try to vent my frustrations to them and try once to convey that my nice clothes that cost me a bunch can not be dried in the dryer. That bras can not be dried on the highest cotton setting. I get a lecture that reminds me that my dear old dad was trying to help his poor sick daughter. Lighten her load so to say. Well, pop if you would listen in the first place we could stop having this convo. I mean really how hard is it to just leave it alone.
Yes, I have OCD. YES I am a basket case. Yes, I am in some pretty severe need of help. NOT with my laundry though. I got that. I don't mind carrying your 25, 50 pound buckets of 30 year old food storage ( sorry Mormon reference ) out of the basement. Even though my sweet ednos, and POT syndrome, and my super fun pain that I can't handle, has me pretty much crawling on the floor. I smiled and said you're welcome. I will say it again Please leave my laundry alone.