Base Camp


If my perpetual mounting mass of laundry could be compared to Mt. Everest, then our master bedroom is its Base Camp. This Base Camp is a place of rest and retreat constantly landscaped by a looming, moody mountain of unfolded, albeit clean, laundry.

Since our bedroom is the last room a guest will ever see, it is the last to be cleaned and organized. The kids’ rooms must be kept presentable for impromptu play dates and the kitchen needs to be controlled like a wild beast needs a cage. The kids’ bathroom? Their water closet is also the guest loo, so fear strikes my heart whenever I hear the words, “May I use your bathroom?” if I don’t wipe it down daily.

But our bedroom. Oh, our bedroom. I’ve had so many things going on this week, I’ve taken to just closing the door on the heap and walking away. To sleep, I’ve had to back hoe the mountain into a basket, then in the morning, dump it onto the bed again with all the intent in the world to conquer its summit. Sometimes I make it to Camp II. Then I run out of oxygen, the dryer dings, and I’m right back at Base Camp.

How many Nepalese Ruppees do you think it would take to hire a Sherpa to help me navigate my way around our ever amassing California king? If it’s not too much, I’ll treat my Greek counterpart, Sisyphus, to one too.


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