Domestic goddess I am not.
Yet I'm still unreasonably proud of myself.
Baaaasically, I'm being a cheap bastard and having my mom help me with laundry tomorrow. She'll be in town, and she called up and said, "Bea, do you want to go with me to the laundromat?" To which my enthusiastic response was "Yes!"
(See, it's not like I can't do my laundry myself. I've been doing my laundry myself since I was twelve. And it's not like I can't exactly afford it--it's ten bucks, a little prohibitive, but I could swing it. But there's something about having Mom there that's...comforting. I think it may be because she always remembers dryer sheets and she folds the dried laundry. When I do it by myself, I never fold anything. I just wad it up in my duffel and go home. But Mom folds stuff, and it's nice.)
So she says laundry day is Thursday. Great! Perfect! Only one problem: I only have clean undergarments through Wednesday. My choices: do laundry by myself on Wednesday, wear dirty underwear Thursday, or wash a pair out in the sink.
The first option slipped by me.
The second I refuse to accept.
So I went for the third. And I spent ten minutes scrubbing and twenty-five under a dinky hand-dryer, but I have a clean, detergent-smelling pair of boyshorts for tomorrow losing their last bit of dampness over the heating vent right now. I took care of the problem!
Clutching them while sneaking back to my room and hoping no one noticed me carrying a pair of underwear through the halls at 6:15am, I felt a rush of the urban savage. I was no wilderness woman, pounding my clothes against a rock and mending them with plant fiber, but I had washed something without the use of a machine! I guess it's kinda like a man buying a pre-spouted tomato plant and giving it a spot on his patio. When it fruits, he must have the same feeling. Sure, he didn't collect that seed, germinate it, or care for the fragile sprout, but he still kept it alive to bear him at least one tomato! He too must feel the echoes of the primitive time, of being the meat-provider: that tiny heirloom tomato is, in his mind, the cooling carcass of the deer he has slung over his shoulders, and thus his role is complete. Same thing with my sink-washed underwear. I am not a slave to you, Maytag! Aha!
Oh god, it's really late. I'm sorry about this post.
Postscript - You dared tease me about my lack of posts, Victoria? Have a massive love letter about washing my underwear. Bwahahaha, and all that jazz.
Baaaasically, I'm being a cheap bastard and having my mom help me with laundry tomorrow. She'll be in town, and she called up and said, "Bea, do you want to go with me to the laundromat?" To which my enthusiastic response was "Yes!"
(See, it's not like I can't do my laundry myself. I've been doing my laundry myself since I was twelve. And it's not like I can't exactly afford it--it's ten bucks, a little prohibitive, but I could swing it. But there's something about having Mom there that's...comforting. I think it may be because she always remembers dryer sheets and she folds the dried laundry. When I do it by myself, I never fold anything. I just wad it up in my duffel and go home. But Mom folds stuff, and it's nice.)
So she says laundry day is Thursday. Great! Perfect! Only one problem: I only have clean undergarments through Wednesday. My choices: do laundry by myself on Wednesday, wear dirty underwear Thursday, or wash a pair out in the sink.
The first option slipped by me.
The second I refuse to accept.
So I went for the third. And I spent ten minutes scrubbing and twenty-five under a dinky hand-dryer, but I have a clean, detergent-smelling pair of boyshorts for tomorrow losing their last bit of dampness over the heating vent right now. I took care of the problem!
Clutching them while sneaking back to my room and hoping no one noticed me carrying a pair of underwear through the halls at 6:15am, I felt a rush of the urban savage. I was no wilderness woman, pounding my clothes against a rock and mending them with plant fiber, but I had washed something without the use of a machine! I guess it's kinda like a man buying a pre-spouted tomato plant and giving it a spot on his patio. When it fruits, he must have the same feeling. Sure, he didn't collect that seed, germinate it, or care for the fragile sprout, but he still kept it alive to bear him at least one tomato! He too must feel the echoes of the primitive time, of being the meat-provider: that tiny heirloom tomato is, in his mind, the cooling carcass of the deer he has slung over his shoulders, and thus his role is complete. Same thing with my sink-washed underwear. I am not a slave to you, Maytag! Aha!
Oh god, it's really late. I'm sorry about this post.
Postscript - You dared tease me about my lack of posts, Victoria? Have a massive love letter about washing my underwear. Bwahahaha, and all that jazz.