Phil just did my laundry. "Did" is the wrong word. "Ruined" is far more accurate. I know that beggars cannot be choosers, that if I wanted it done right, I’d have at least loaded the washing machine myself. I just didn’t think. All my whites have turned blue! Actually, a minty green blue, as if a turquoise article of clothing decided to make out with my panties. Not just that. All my pastels, the beige slacks and khaki shorts, the seashell pink piqué polo, my deep-plunge off-white sweater is now way off-white. All the pale colors are now tie-died blue.

"Pink is a color!" he says in defense of his decision to mix all of my pastel shades with the navy blues of our life. Oh, joy.