Darks and lights, hot and cold.
One of the new tasks I find myself doing is laundry. Ok, it's not really "new" but I didn't do it while we were married. That was one of the things she did. She was particular about mating delicates and inappropriates, but the divorce should have told you that. Me? I'm a throw it all together cuz it'll all come out in the…yeah, sorry. Let's just say, she wanted more from her wash than I could give her. She took on that task. She also took the new washing machine when she left. I figure that makes us even.
I bought a new one when she left. I'm not gonna do the Laundromat thing again. Yeah, I know. I can meet girls there. I can also meet bums, drug dealers, and frazzled mothers slaloming through washing machines, trying to cage their brood beneath a laundry basket, while shouting the mantra of "Stop it, stop it, stop it!" Until they finally collapses in a pile of refuse in the corner. Although more entertaining than watching Lindsay Lohan's career implode (which I can also watch if I choose, from the 13 inch monitor in the corner), it takes away time from my day. No, I'd sooner scale laundry mountain for an almost clean shirt than do the Laundromat thing again.
My new machine isn't bad, It has 4 cycles, 3 temperatures, and a little place for the fabric softener. I ask you, what more could a guy who wears shorts and t-shirts to work ask for?
So far, I've used all temps, and 3 cycles. I even used the extra rinse once. I know I know, I am a madman. Stand back from the washing stud: he's glowing with laundrotude. What? Look it up. It's that clean glowing word on page 456 of the Rob to English dictionary.
You want to hear something else cool? I also get to wash the sheets as often as I want to. Oh, I could have before, but that would mean that I had to wash them. I have this strange fear from when I was a kid. It's called "Now-it's-your-chore-a-phobia." Tens of Americans suffer from this debilitating malady.
My parents instilled this rare condition when I was a child. I blame them. I'd do something nice like setting the table once, and suddenly it was my job forever. Washing the car? Same thing! Ever since then, I'm a little reluctant to butt into somebody else's chore list. It's weird I know, but my to-do list is all the shorter because of it.
At least until I found myself alone. Now all chores are Rob's chores. See? I did them once, and now their mine! I tell you, just because I'm paranoid doesn't mean they're not standing outside with bobbins and pruning shears.
And that's what brings us here. Last night, while hanging my shirts after washing them--Ok, stop. I know I said the shorts and t-shirt thing. No I don't hang my t-shirts. I wear button downs and stuff when I go to things like the writers' group or church. It's kind of like playing dress up. Ok, scratch that. It's nothing like dress up. I just like wearing something other than work clothes when I go out, that's all.
So anyway, I was hanging both of them up and I noticed that one was missing a button. I dropped the thing like a spider rushing my arm.
"AHHH!" I screamed in my best 10 year old girl voice.
I don't sew. I don't do buttons. What do I do with this? I just bought the shirt. I hate to throw it away. See, when my UnWife was here, she didn't sew my stuff either. But I could stack it to the side and pretend it would get done. I'd seen her sew her own buttons, so it must be her job. Stuff would sit there until the fabric gave way to rot. That was ok, problem solved. I wasn't going to wear a rotting piece of cloth anyway.
Now I'm alone. If I don't sew this, I just look lazy.
I know don't say it. I already wear the scarlet "L" on my chest. It's this really cool cursive thing. I styled it in honor of Laverne and Shirley.
What do I do about the missing button though? I visited the Laundromat, to talk to my local drug dealer. I knew he had needles. Thread would be another issue. Where do you find that? I could use fishing line. I don't fish, but I know where to find it...
After gathering my materials, I set about perfecting my thread weaving technique. It's not pretty. My button looks like there's a raspberry of thread attached to it's surface. I had to sew raspberries onto the other buttons so that they'd match. No, I didn't make thread-berries, I didn't have time for that, I sewed real raspberries on them. They match really well too. It's a manly shirt, and I smell fresh. I may not have to wash this one for weeks! There's a built in deodorizer.
I'm learning to multitask! Take that MyUnwife!
5 comments:
First, thank you for taking me back to a wonderful time in my life with that song, Misery.
Congrats on the new appliance. You seem to be doing well. When my husband first started to do the laundry, I made this cool chart that showed the types of loads and the temperature they were to be washed in. He doesn't wash clothes anymore; it was during the time we exchanged roles and he became a stay at home dad. I love doing laundry-except for folding and putting clothes away. That is one thing I delegate to the family.
I understand your Now-it's-your-chore-a-phobia. Fortunately, I don't have that phobia, but I understand it because the same thing happened to me when I was little, just not enough for me to develop a phobia. I'll have to remember that when my kids surprise me like that.
I'm glad you like. I was living in a dorm when that came out. Seems like everytime I walked through the lobby, that was playing on MTV. Either that or "Cumbersome." Oh yeah, or Alice in Chains, "Again" again. It was a simpler time, and yeah, I was doing my own laundry then. ;) Maybe that's the key to happiness. The art of Zen and sudsy agitation.
Ok, I'm babbling now. I'm glad you could turn my phobia around for the betterment of your children. I can endure a nervous twitch for that.
Santa Ana's are here, and I've got to go figure out how to stand up a fence by myself. It's laying in my neigbbor's yard and my dog is eying it suspiciously.
So I'm siting her working, and I can't get the thought of a "cool" laundry chart out of my head. All I can see is this big piece of poster board, with a flow chart multicolored lines and boxes. Pictures of shirts, sheep, cotton fluffs, smiley faces, and shrunken sweaters direct lines like mini laundry traffic cops...
I know. That's not what your chart looked like, it's just my head running amok.
Can you explain what you meant in that last paragraph of the first grphter said...?
The chart was only letter sized. I wonder if I still have it saved. Anyway, if I remember correctly I used clip art and a fun font and colorfully shaded columns. And it was cool because I made it. Nothing more.
LOL I guess that was a little vague. It's all code. Like those old WWII spy films my dad used to watch.
"the fat man sleeps alone..."
Then there's a return code and secrets are shared.
Seriously, tomorrow's post will talk about it more, but Every state has a natural disaster. Some states it's tornados, in Az, it's thunderstorms and flash floods, here in CA, it's earthquakes. But since we don't get those very often, the Santa Ana winds are the disaster backup program. They blow solid for weeks, start fires and knock down structures. They average between 35-65 mph, and don't let up. This morning I got up and found my wood fence lying down in my neighbor's back yard. The wood is old, and it really needs to be replaced. For now though, we need to find a way to stand it up, and make it stay until we can afford to do something. We being my neighbor and I.
My dog thinks that God just oppened up an annex to his back yard. Since that's the side he likes to leave his piles of joy, I'm worred he'll leave gifts for my neighbor in appreciation.
As for your chart, I figured that's what it was. I couldn't stop my mind from running off on an odd tangent. If it were me, I'd have cut the back off of a box of Cheer. If they were lucky, I'd have bought it first, rather than leaving it's inner cheer to spill over the grocery store floor.
And, for the record, I'm sure that because you made it, it was very cool. If nothing else, it was personal and considerate. That makes it very cool indeed. In relationships, those are the things that matter.
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