Remember how Buttonman . . or any Buttonman, was supposed to fix my washing machine? Well it's still not fixed . . . and we've been waiting for parts for close to three weeks now. Oh how, oh, I wish they'd never invented clothes (--well, except for a good muumuu).
Something learned on this dirty adventure is that I seem to have become an Elitist, --because I'd rather wear something wrong sized, wrong seasoned, or just plain soiled, than go to use a public laundromat. I'm sorry you have to read of such snobbery, but it's true.
Have you seen the inside of a laundromat lately ?? Well I haven't either . . but I'm sure every Tom, Dick, and Harriot hillbilly is washing tennis shoes, fishing vests, and wrestling leotards in those machines -- not to mention cloth diapers! (thanks, Obama.)
And we (I) have sunk to new depths around the homestead, just to keep me from having to go to one such place.
Where the boys have thought me a fairly whippet clean freak . . they now hear things like 'if it ain't standing on it's own --wear it again!!' and 'clean hands warm heart, dirty shirt looks smart', and 'yeah, well, no one ever said it'd be easy . . --you just assumed it'd be washed.'
Trying to stay above the influx of fouled apparel, I have traveled hither and yon borrowing any machine besides a public one. I'm like that annoying bachelor who rotates around his friends' apartment couches instead of getting one of his own.
Other people's washing machines are my heroin.
Worse yet, I think I may have accidentally left my backup-granny-panties in some dear friend's machine . . but I can't remember who's! So it's been like tracking down a crime (--cause those granny's really are a crime . . . )
And if my friend's hubbytype I sit next to in Sunday School finds them first, I will never be able to live with myself, or speak of the gospel in front of him again. How can I read scripture out loud when I know my super knickers are hanging in his laundry room ?? Somehow I must get his wife to explain they're a fancy shower cap . . and leave it at that.
Last week I had my teen bring and do two loads at his buddies house while he hung out. (Of course I asked the mom first . . )
Later Teen'son told me . . and get this . . .
' . . I don't want to do laundry all the time!' (two loads)
. . . Well, I guess you won't want to grow up to become your wife then, --because . . . HELLO!
Today I at long last concluded being a washing machine elitist wasn't so easy on gas and friendships, --and I finally hit the public domain.
Once I got my clothes past the clientele's cigarette smoke it was rather smooth going. The machines were tiny and only offered twenty-eight minute cycles (is that enough to clean 'smells-like-teen-spirit' ?) . . but in no time it was over and I was home, -having successfully made a small 3-load dent in my 50-load-mother-of-a-habit.
I can feel it in my psyche --my machine's parts are going to come tomorrow.
And yeah, so what. It's official. --I enjoy homemaking best with all the in-home modern day conveniences.
You can sue me.
Just don't make me do dishes at the dish-o-mat.
1 comment:
wish I would have known about your situation earlier. . .my machines are your machines. . . any day but Monday.
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