Chores Schmores, and Underwear

I couldn't find any clean underwear this morning.

It's an ugly picture, but I'll paint it anyway: Me, in the buff. Freshly primped and primed for the day, wandering around my bedroom looking for something with which to gird my loins. I checked the usual spots, like in my dresser drawer. Nope. I looked on my recliner next to the desk in the corner of the room where stacks of laundry usually end up sitting for a week or two. Nope. Only t-shirts and a pair of shorts that I don't remember wearing, at least not recently, because the hems are tearing out. So I peeked out the bedroom door and found some - the maroon ones that are boxer briefs and aren't all clingy and binding - tucked in the bottom of one of the three laundry baskets stacked in the hallway with clean clothes in them. Everyone's clean clothes. There were Tinkerbell shirts and Guitar Hero pajama bottoms and bras - training and seasoned - and other assorted items, all neatly folded, for the most part, and just waiting for safe passage into Dresserland.

Someone didn't put the laundry away. Again.

This is par for the course, people. For around my place, chores aren't really chores at all, but rather things that eventually get done when the need arises. And only maybe then. After all, isn't it just as easy to get a clean coffee cup out of the dishwasher, or to find one in the sink and rinse it out, as it is to search for one in the cupboard? Same for laundry. I mean, if you want laundry, check the laundry basket, right?

To put it as simply as possible, we all have other things to do. Yeah, it's chaos, but it's an organized chaos. A routine that has grown as comfortable as a favorite pair of underwear. There are six of us, and we are, for the most part, not children. And if you want something done, you generally end up doing it yourself. This, of course, requires two things: 1) a keen awareness, whereby one notices that this or that task needs done, and 2) a willingness to chip in on occasion to ensure that said tasks don't pile up. It's not perfect. It's not the Brady Bunch. It doesn't translate well onto a dry erase board mounted on the wall or a checklist on a Post-It note slapped onto the fridge. And it can lead to occasional frustrations.

Like when you can't find underwear.

But we aren't an easily frustrated bunch. As I said, par for the course.

But the question remains: Is there one gender-specific task that I do that I wish my wife would do instead? In all honesty, I can't think of a single thing. At least not one that would be considered a chore. Like getting the oil changed. This, of course, only comes up when the light starts blinking in the van. About that time, I start getting the Why-Don't-You-Swing-By-Walmart-And-Get-The-Oil-Changed speech. No dear. Why don't YOU swing by Walmart and get the oil changed. It's not like it's hard or anything. They have all the information right there in their handy little computer thingy. Just nod your head and smile and sign in the little box. And then you'll have that rare and glorious opportunity to schmooze with the garrulous and smiley octogenarian guy at the service desk who uses the word "vehicle" instead of car when he pages you. What joy! What fun! I hate him. So you, my dear, can do it this time. And the next time. And the time after that.

You get the picture . . .